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IRISH   POETS 
OF    TO-DAY 

AN     ANTHOLOGY 


IRISH     POETS 
OF    TO-DAY 


AN     ANTHOLOGY 


COMPILED    BY 


L.   D'O.    WALTERS 


E.  P.  DUTTON  AND  COMPANY 

68 1   FIFTH   AVENUE,   NEW   YORK 


{All  rights  rexn-ut) 

HBNTEB  IN  GRBA7  BIOTA IX 


TO  MY  SON 

AND 

A.    E. 


2060766 


NOTE 


The  majority  of  these  poems  have  been 
selected  by  me,  but  in  a  feio  instances  the 
poet  himself  has  expressed  a  ^msh  that 
some  particular  poem  or  poems  should  be 
Included,  and  I  have  abided  readily  by 
his  choice. 

My  thanks  to  both  Authors  and  Pub- 
lishers will  be  found  on  another  page, 
but  here  I  would  thank  expressly  A.  E., 
Messrs.  Maunsel  &  Roberts,  and  The 
Talbot  Press  for  the  help  they  have  given 
me,  and  for  the  courtesy  they  have  shoivn 
me,  while  I  have  been  compiling  this 
Anthology. 

L.   D'O.    WALTERS. 


CONTENTS 

Arranged  under  namts  of  Authors 
A.  E. 

PAGE 

A   CALL                ...  ...                 ...                 ...                 ...       17 

AWAKENING               ...  ...                ...                ...                18 

CARROWMORE...  ...                ...                ...                ...      19 

IN  THE  WOMB          ...  ...                ...                ...                21 

THE  GIFT          ...  ...                ...                ...                ...      22 

THE  VISION  OF  LOVE  ...                ...                ...                23 

BOYD,   THOMAS 

TO  THE  LEANAN  SIDHE  ...  ...  ...      24 

CAMPBELL,   JOSEPH 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  ...  ...  ...  ...  26 

CHALMERS,    PATRICK  R. 

THE  ROAD        ...  ...  ...  ...  ...      27 

CHESSON,   NORA 

THE  SHORT  CUT  TO   ROSSES  ...  ...  29 

CLARKE,   AUSTIN 

THE  VENGEANCE  OF  FiONN.    Part  VI,  lines  19-71    30 

COLUM,   PADRAIC 

A  CRADLE   SONG     ...  ...  ...  ...  33 

A  DROVER        ...  ...  ...  ...  ...      34 

AN  OLD  WOMAN  OF  THE  ROADS         ...  ...  36 

COUSINS,   JAMES  H. 

HIGH  AND  LOW  ...  ...  ...  ...      38 

THE   CORNCRAKE    ..  ...  39 


io  CONTENTS 

DOAK,   H.   L. 

PAGE 

THE  BEGGAR  ...  ...      40 

FIGGIS,   DARRELL 

BOGAC   BAN                 ...                 ...  ...                 ...                 41 

INI8GALLUN     ...                ...  ...                ...                ...      43 

GORE-BOOTH,   EVA 

TO  DORA  SIGER8ON  SHORTER.  "THE  SAD  YEARS"      44 

GREGORY,   FABRIC 

DOUBT  OF  REMEMBRANCE  ...            ...            ...    45 

THE  DREAM -TELLER           ...  ...            ...           46 

THE  WARNIN'S             ...  ...           ...           ...    47 

HUME,    ISOBEL  (I.    H.    FISHER) 

HOME-COMING          ...                ...  ...                ...                48 

THE  SLEEPER  ...      49 

HYDE,    DOUGLAS 

IF  I   WERE  TO   GO   WEST       ...  ...                 ...                 50 

RINGLETED  YOUTH   OF   MY   LOVK  ...                 ...      52 

THE  COOLEEN,    OR  COOLUN  ...                ...                54 

JOHNSON,    LIONEL 

DEAD                    ...                ...  ...                ...                ...      56 

TO  MORFYDD            ...                ...  ...                ...                57 

"  TO  WEEP  IRISH  "        ...  ...                ...                ...      59 

LEDWIDGE,   FRANCIS 

DESIRE  IN  SPRING                    ...  ...                ...                60 

MY   MOTHER    ..  ...      01 


CONTENTS  1 1 

LESLIE,   SHANE 

HUM 

FLEET  STREET    ...  ...       ...       ...      62 

FOREST  SONG         ...  ...       ...       ...   63 

HOLY  CROSS      ...  ...       ...       ...       64 

MUCKISH   MOUNTAIN      ...  ...                ...                ...      66 

LETTS,    W.  M. 

BOYS      ....                ...  ...                ...                ...                67 

IN  THE  STREET                ...  ...                ...                ...      68 

IRISH  SKIES              ...  ...                ...                ...                69 

THE  HARBOUR                  ...  ...                ...                ...      71 

LYSAGHT,   EDWARD   E. 

THE   MARCH    FAIR...  ...                ...                ...                73 

MACDONAGH,   THOMAS 

TO  EOGHAN      ...                ...  ...                ...                ...      76 

MACENTEE,   JOHN  FRANCIS 

I   MADE  MY  LOVE   A  LITTLE    SECRET  HOUSE...  77 

MACGILL,   PATRICK 

DEDICATION     ...                 ...  ...                ...                ...      79 

MITCHELL,    SUSAN 

THE  LIVING  CHALICE  ...                ...                ...                82 

"O'NEILL,    MOIRA" 

CORRYMEELA  ...                ...  ...                ...                ...      83 

O'SULLIVAN,    SEUMAS 

THE  ROSSES               ...  ...                ...                ...                85 

THE  TWILIGHT  PEOPLE  .      86 


12  CONTENTS 

PEARSE,  P.  H. 

PAGB 

A  WOMAN  OF   THE    MOUNTAIN   KEENS    HER   SON  87 

THE  WAYFARER              ...                ...  ...                ...      89 

PLUNKETT,   JOSEPH  M. 

WHITE  DOVE  OF  THE  WILD   DARK  EYES         ...  90 

ROLLESTON,   T.   W. 

SONG  OF  MAELDUIN       ...                ...  ...                ...      91 

THE  DEAD  AT  CLONMACNOI8  ...                ...                93 

ROWLEY,   R. 

THINKIN'  LONG            ...           ...  ...           ...    94 

WITCHCRAFT             ...                ...  ...                ...                95 

SIGERSON,   DORA 

CAN  DOOV  DEELISH       ...                ...  ...                ...      96 

THE  COMFORTERS...                ...  ...                ...                97 

STEPHENS,   JAMES 

BLUE  STARS  AND  GOLD                  ...  ...                ...      98 

IN  THE  POPPY  FIELD             ...  ...                ...                99 

O'CONNELL  BRIDGE       ...            ...  ...            ...  100 

STEPHEN'S  GREEN              ...  ...           ...          101 

THE  RED-HAIRED  MAN'S  WIFE...  ...                ...    102 

THE  SNARE                ...                ...  ...                ...              104 

TRENCH,   HERBERT 

A  SONG  TO  AROLILIA,  DWELLER  BY  THE  FOUNTAIN   105 

EPITAPH   ON  AN  INFANT                ...  ...                ...    107 

SONG  OF  THE  VINE  IN   ENGLAND  ...                ...              108 

WHO  ART  THOU,    STARRY  GHOST  ...                ...    112 


CONTENTS  13 

TYNAN,    KATHARINE 


FAREWELL 
THE   OLD  LOVE 

PAGE 

113 
114 

THE  PRAYER 

116 

YEATS,   W.   B. 

DOWN  BY  THE  SALLEY  GARDENS 

...  117 

RUNNING  TO  PARADISE 

118 

THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE  ... 

...  120 

THE   SORROW   OF  LOVE 

121 

THE  WILD  SWANS  AT  COOLE       ... 

...  122 

TO  THE  ROSE  UPON  THE  ROOD  OF  TIME 

124 

WHEN  YOU  ARE  OLD    ...  ...  ...  ...    126 


IRISH    POETS   OF   TO-DAY 

AN   ANTHOLOGY 


A.  E.  17 


A    CALL 

DUSK  its  ash-grey  blossoms  sheds  on  violet  skies, 
Over  twilight  mountains  where  the  heart  songs  rise, 
Rise  and  fall  and  fade  away  from  earth  to  air. 
Earth  renews  the  music  sweeter.     Oh,  come  there. 
Come,  acushla,  come,  as  in  ancient  times 
Rings  aloud  the  underland  with  faery  chimes. 
Down  the  unseen  ways  as  strays  each  tinkling  fleece 
Winding  ever  onward  to  a  fold  of  peace, 
So  my  dreams  go  straying  in  a  land  more  fair; 
Half  I  tread  the  dew-wet  grasses,  half  wander  there. 
Fade  your  glimmering  eyes  in  a  world  grown  cold ; 
Come,  acushla,  with  me  to  the  mountains  old. 
There  the  bright  ones  call  us  waving  to  and  fro — 
Come,  my  children,  with  me  to  the  ancient  go. 


i8  A.  E. 


AWAKENING 

THE  lights  shone  down  the  street 
In  the  long  blue  close  of  day : 
A  boy's  heart  beat  sweet,  sweet, 
As  it  flowered  in  its  dreamy  clay. 

Beyond  the  dazzling  throng 
And  above  the  towers  of  men 
The  stars  made  him  long,  long, 
To  return  to  their  light  again. 

They  lit  the  wondrous  years 
And  his  heart  within  was  gay ; 
But  a  life  of  tears,  tears, 
He  had  won  for  himself  that  day. 


A.  E.  19 


CARROWMORE 

IT'S  a  lonely  road  through  bogland  to  the  lake  at 

Carrowmore, 
And  a  sleeper  there  lies  dreaming  where  the  water 

laps  the  shore; 
Though   the   moth-wings   of  the   twilight   in   their 

purples  are  unfurled, 
Yet  his  sleep  is  filled  with  music  by  the  masters  of 

the  world. 

There's  a  hand  is  white  as   silver  that  is  fondling 

with  his  hair  : 
There  are  glimmering  feet  of  sunshine  that  are  dancing 

by  him  there : 
And  half-open  lips  of  faery  that  were  dyed  a  faery 

red 
In  their  revels  where  the  Hazel  Tree  its  holy  clusters 

shed. 

"  Come  away,"  the  red  lips  whisper,  "  all  the  world 

is  weary  now; 
'Tis  the  twilight  of  the  ages  and  it's  time  to  quit 

the  plough. 
Oh,  the  very  sunlight's  weary  ere  it  lightens  up  the 

dew, 
And  its  gold  is  changed  and  faded  before  it  falls  to 

you. 


20  A.  E. 

"  Though  your  colleen's  heart  be  tender,  a  tenderer 
heart  is  near. 

What's  the  starlight  in  her  glances  when  the  stars 
are  shining  clear  ? 

Who  would  kiss  the  fading  shadow  when  the  flower- 
face  glows  above  ? 

Tis  the  beauty  of  all  Beauty  that  is  calling  for 
your  love." 

Oh !  the  great  gates  of  the  mountain  have  opened 

once  again, 
And  the  sound  of  song  and  dancing  falls  upon  the  ears 

of  men, 
And  the  Land  of  Youth  lies  gleaming,  flushed  with 

rainbow  light  and  mirth, 
And  the  old  enchantment  lingers  in  the  honey-heart 

of  earth. 


A.  E.  21 


IN 

THE   WOMB 


STILL  rests  the  heavy  share  on  the  dark  soil : 
Upon  the  black  mould  thick  the  dew-damp  lies  : 
The  horse  waits  patient :  from  his  lowly  toil 
The  ploughboy  to  the  morning  lifts  his  eyes. 

The  unbudding  hedgerows  dark  against  day's  fires 
Glitter  with  gold-lit  crystals  :  on  the  rim 
Over  the  unregarding  city's  spires 
The  lonely  beauty  shines  alone  for  him. 

And  day  by  day  the  dawn  or  dark  enfolds 
And  feeds  with  beauty  eyes  that  cannot  see 
How  in  her  womb  the  mighty  mother  moulds 
The  infant  spirit  for  eternity. 


22 


A.E. 


THE 
GIFT 


I  THOUGHT,  beloved,  to  have  brought  to  you 
A  gift  of  quietness  and  ease  and  peace, 
Cooling  your  brow  as  with  the  mystic  dew 
Dropping  from  the  twilight  trees. 

Homeward  I  go  not  yet ;  the  darkness  grows ; 
Not  mine  the  voice  to  still  with  peace  divine  : 
From  the  first  fount  the  stream  of  quiet  flows 
Through  other  hearts  than  mine. 

Yet  of  my  night  I  give  to  you  the  stars, 
And  of  my  sorrow  here  the  sweetest  gains, 
And  out  of  hell,  beyond  its  iron  bars, 
My  scorn  of  all  its  pains. 


A  E.  23 


THE    VISION 
OF    LOVE 


THE  twilight  fleeted  away  in  pearl  on  the  stream, 
And  night,  like  a  diamond  dome,  stood  still  in  our 

dream. 
Your  eyes  like  burnished  stones  or  as  stars  were 

bright 
With  the  sudden  vision  that  made  us  one  with  the 

night. 

We  loved  in  infinite  spaces,  forgetting  here 

The  breasts  that  were  lit  with  life  and  the  lips  so 

near ; 

Till  the  wizard  willows  waved  in  the  wind  and  drew 
Me  away  from  the  fulness  of  love  and  down  to  you. 

Our  love  was  so  vast  that  it  filled  the  heavens  up  : 
But  the  soft  white  fear  I  held  was  an  empty  cup, 
When  the  willows  called  me  back  to  earth  with  their 

sigh, 
And  we  moved  as  shades  through  the  deep  that  was 

you  and  I. 


24  THOMAS  BOYD 


TO    THE 
LEANXN    SIDHE  ' 

WHERE  is  thy  lovely  perilous  abode  ? 

In  what  strange  phantom-land 
Glimmer  the  fairy  turrets  whereto  rode 

The  ill-starred  poet  band  ? 

Say,  in  the  Isle  of  Youth  hast  thou  thy  home, 

The  sweetest  singer  there, 
Stealing  on  winged  steed  across  the  foam 

Through  the  moonlit  air  ? 

Or,  where  the  mists  of  bluebell  float  beneath 

The  red  stems  of  the  pine, 

And   sunbeams    strike   thro'    shadow,    dost   thou 
breathe 

The  word  that  makes  him  thine  ? 

Or  by  the  gloomy  peaks  of  Erigal, 

Haunted  by  storm  and  cloud, 
Wing  past,  and  to  thy  lover  there  let  fall 

His  singing-robe  and  shroud  ? 

Or,  is  thy  palace  entered  thro'  some  cliff 

When  radiant  tides  are  full, 
And  round  thy  lover's  wandering,  starlit  skiff, 

Coil  in  luxurious  lull  ? 
i  "The  Fairy  Bride,"  pronounced  Lenawn  Shee. 


THOMAS  BOYD  25 

And  would  he,  entering  on  the  brimming  flood, 

See  caverns  vast  in  height, 
And  diamond  columns,  crowned  with  leaf  and  bud, 

Glow  in  long  lanes  of  light, 

And  there,  the  pearl  of  that  great  glittering  shell 

Trembling,  behold  thee  lone, 
Now  weaving  in  slow  dance  an  awful  spell, 

Now  still  upon  thy  throne  ? 

Thy  beauty  !  ah,  the  eyes  that  pierce  him  thro* 

Then  melt  as  in  a  dream ; 
The  voice  that  sings  the  mysteries  of  the  blue 

And  all  that  Be  and  Seem ! 

Thy  lovely  motions  answering  to  the  rhyme 

That  ancient  Nature  sings, 
That  keeps  the  stars  in  cadence  for  all  time, 

And  echoes  thro'  all  things ! 

Whether  he  sees  thee  thus,  or  in  his  dreams, 

Thy  light  makes  all  lights  dim ; 
An  aching  solitude  from  henceforth  seems 

The  world  of  men  to  him. 

Thy  luring  song,  above  the  sensuous  roar, 

He  follows  with  delight, 
Shutting  behind  him  Life's  last  gloomy  door, 

And  fares  into  the  Night. 


26  JOSEPH  CAiMPBELL 


THE 

OLD    WOMAN 


As  a  white  candle 
In  a  holy  place, 
So  is  the  beauty 
Of  an  aged  face. 

As  the  spent  radiance 
Of  the  winter  sun, 
So  is  a  woman 
With  her  travail  done. 

Her  brood  gone  from  her 
And  her  thoughts  as  still 
As  the  waters 
Under  a  ruined  mill. 


PATRICK  R.   CHALMERS  27 


THE 
ROAD 

"  Now  where  are  ye  goin',"  ses  I,  "  wid  the  shawl 
An'  cotton  umbrella  an'  basket  an*  all  ? 
Would  ye  not  wait  for  McMullen's  machine, 
Wid  that  iligant  instep  befittin'  a  queen  ? 

Oh,  you  wid  the  wind-soft  grey  eye  wid  a  wile 

in  it, 

You  wid  the  lip  wid  the  troublesome  smile  in  it, 
Sure,  the  road's  wet,  ivery  rain-muddied  mile 

in  it » 

"  Ah,  the  Saints  'II  be  kapin'  me  petticoats  clean ! " 

"But,"  ses  I,  "would  ye  like  it  to  meet  Clancy's 

bull, 

Or  the  tinks  poachin'  rabbits  above  Slieve-na-coul  ? 
An'  the  ford  at  Kilmaddy  is  big  wid  the  snows, 
An'  the  whisht  Little  People  that  wear  the  green 

close, 
They'd  run  from  the  bog  to  be  makin'  a  catch 

o'  ye, 
The  king  o'  them's  wishful  o'  weddin'  the  match 

o'  ye, 
'Twould  be  long,  if  they  did,  'ere  ye  lifted  the 

latch  o'  ye " 

"  What  fairy's  to  touch  her  that  sings  as  she  goes  I  " 


28  PATRICK  R.   CHALMERS 

"  Ah,  where  are  ye  goin',"  ses  I,  "  wid  the  shawl, 
An'  the  grey  eyes  a-dreamin'  beneath  it  an'  all  ? 
The  road  by  the  mountain's  a  long  one,  depend 
Ye'll  be  done  for,  alannah,  ere  reachin'  the  end  ; 
Ye'll  be  bate  wid  the  wind  on  each  back-breakin' 

bit  on  it, 
Wet  wid  the  puddles  and  lamed  with  the  grit 

on  it, — 
Since  lonesome  ye're  layin'  yer  delicut  fit  on 

"Sure  whin's  a  road  lonesome  that's  stepped  wid  a 

friend?" 

That's  stepped  wid  a  friend  ? 
Who  did  Bridgy  intend  ? 

Still  't  was  me  that  went  wid  her  right  on  to  the 
end! 


NORA  CHESSON  29 


THE    SHORT    CUT 
TO    ROSSES 

BY  the  short  cut  to  Rosses  a  fairy  girl  I  met, 
I  was  taken  in  her  beauty  as  a  fish  is  in  a  net. 
The  fern  uncurled  to  look  at  her,  so  very  fair  was 

she, 
With  her  hair  as  bright  as  seaweed  new-drawn  from 

out  the  sea. 

By  the  short  cut  to  Rosses  ('twas  on  the  first  of 

May) 
I  heard  the  fairies  piping,  and  they  piped  my  heart 

away; 
They  piped  till  I  was  mad  with  joy,  but  when  I  was 

alone 
I  found  my  heart  was  piped  away  and  in  my  breast 

a  stone. 

By  the  short  cut  to  Rosses  'tis  I'll  go  never  more, 
Lest  she  should  also  steal  my  soul  that  stole  my 

heart  before, 
Lest  she  take  my  soul  and  crush  it  like  a  dead  leaf 

in  her  hand, 
For  the  short  cut  to  Rosses  is  the  way  to  Fairyland. 


3° 


AUSTIN  CLARKE 


THE   VENGEANCE 
OF    FIONN 

Part  VI.    Lines  19-71. 

IN  the  sleepy  forest  where  the  bluebells 

Smouldered  dimly  through  the  night, 

Diarmuid  saw  the  leaves  like  glad  green  waters 

At  daybreak  flowing  into  light, 

And  exultant  from  his  love  upspringing 

Strode  with  the  sun  upon  the  height. 

Glittering  on  the  hilltops 

He  saw  the  sunlit  rain 

Drift  as  around  the  spindle 

A  silver-threaded  skein, 

And  the  brown  mist  whitely  breaking 

Where  arrowy  torrents  reached  the  plain. 

A  maddened  moon 

Leapt  in  his  heart  and  whirled  the  crimson  tide 
Of  his  blood  until  it  sang  aloud  of  battle 
Where  the  querns  of  dark  death  grind, 
Till  it  sang  and  scorned  in  pride 
Love — the  froth-pale  blossom  of  the  boglands 
That    flutters    on    the    waves    of    the    wandering 
wind. 


AUSTIN  CLARKE  31 

Flower-quiet  in  the  rush-strewn  sheiling 

At  the  dawntime  Grainne  lay, 

While    beneath    the    birch-topped    roof    the 

sunlight 

Groped  upon  its  way 

And  stooped  above  her  sleeping  white  body 
With  a  wasp-yellow  ray. 

The  hot  breath  of  the  day  awoke  her, 

And  wearied  of  its  heat 

She  wandered  out  by  noisy  elms 

On  the  cool  mossy  peat, 

Where  the  shadowed  leaves  like  pecking  linnets 

Nodded  around  her  feet. 

She  leaned  and  saw  in  pale-grey  waters, 

By  twisted  hazel  boughs, 

Her  lips  like  heavy  drooping  poppies 

In  a  rich  redness  drowse, 

Then  swallow-lightly  touched  the  ripples 

Until  her  wet  lips  were 

Burning  as  ripened  rowan  berries 

Through  the  white  winter  air. 

Lazily  she  lingered 

Gazing  so, 

As  the  slender  osiers 
Where  the  waters  flow, 
As  green  twigs  of  sally 
Swaying  to  and  fro. 


32  AUSTIN  CLARKE 

Sleepy  moths  fluttered 

In  her  dark  eyes, 

And  her  lips  grew  quieter 

Than  lullabies. 

Swaying  with  the  reedgrass 

Over  the  stream 

Lazily  she  lingered 

Cradling  a  dream. 


PADRAIC  COLUM  33 


A  CRADLE 
SONG 


O,  MEN  from  the  fields  ! 
Come  gently  within. 
Tread  softly,  softly, 
O  !  men  coming  in. 

Mavourneen  is  going 
From  me  and  from  you, 
Where  Mary  will  fold  him 
With  mantle  of  blue  ! 

From  reek  of  the  smoke 
And  cold  of  the  floor, 
And  the  peering  of  things 
Across  the  half-door. 

O,  men  from  the  fields  ! 
Soft,  softly  come  thro'. 
Mary  puts  round  him 
Her  mantle  of  blue. 


34  PADRAIC  COLUM 


A 

DROVER 


To  Meath  of  the  pastures, 
From  wet  hills  of  the  sea, 
Through  Leitrim  and  Longford, 
Go  my  cattle  and  me. 

I  hear  in  the  darkness 
Their  slipping  and  breathing — 
I  name  them  the  bye-ways 
They're  to  pass  without  heeding ; 

Then  the  wet,  winding  roads, 
Brown  bogs  with  black  water ; 
And  my  thoughts  on  white  ships 
And  the  King  o'  Spain's  daughter. 

O  !  farmer,  strong  farmer  ! 
You  can  spend  at  the  fair; 
But  your  face  you  must  turn 
To  your  crops  and  your  care. 

And  soldiers — red  soldiers  ! 
You've  seen  many  lands  ; 
But  you  walk  two  by  two," 
And  by  captain's  commands. 


PADRAIC  COLUM  35 

O !  the  smell  of  the  beasts, 
The  wet  wind  in  the  morn  ; 
And  the  proud  and  hard  earth 
Never  broken  for  corn ; 

And  the  crowds  at  the  fair, 
The  herds  loosened  and  blind, 
Loud  words  and  dark  faces 
And  the  wild  blood  behind. 

(0 !  strong  men,  with  your  best 
I  would  strive  breast  to  breast. 
I  could  quiet  your  herds 
With  my  words,  with  my  words.) 

I  will  bring  you,  my  kine, 
Where  there's  grass  to  the  knee ; 
But  you'll  think  of  scant  croppings 
Harsh  with  salt  of  the  sea. 


36  PADRAIC  COLUM 


AN    OLD    WOMAN 
OF     THE     ROADS 

O !  to  have  a  little  house  ! 
To  own  the  hearth  and  stool  and  all ! 
The  heaped  up  sods  upon  the  fire, 
The  pile  of  turf  against  the  wall ! 

To  have  a  clock  with  weights  and  chains 
And  pendulum  swinging  up  and  down  ! 
A  dresser  filled  with  shining  delph, 
Speckled  and  white  and  blue  and  brown  ! 

I  could  be  busy  all  the  day 

Clearing  and  sweeping  hearth  and  floor, 

And  fixing  on  their  shelf  again 

My  white  and  blue  and  speckled  store ! 

I  could  be  quiet  there  at  night 

Beside  the  fire  and  by  myself, 

Sure  of  a  bed  and  loth  to  leave 

The  ticking  clock  and  the  shining  delph  ! 

Och !  but  I'm  weary  of  mist  and  dark, 

And  roads  where  there's  never  a  house  nor  bush, 

And  tired  I  am  of  bog  and  road, 

And  the  crying  wind  and  the  lonesome  hush  ! 


PADRAIC  COLUM  37 

And  I  am  praying  to  God  on  high, 
And  I  am  praying  Him  night  and  day, 
For  a  little  house — a  house  of  my  own — 
Out  of  the  wind's  and  the  rain's  way. 


38  JAMES  H.  COUSINS 


HIGH 
AND    LOW 


HE  stumbled  home  from  Clifden  fair 

With  drunken  song,  and  cheeks  aglow. 

Yet  there  was  something  in  his  air 

That  told  of  kingship  long  ago. 

I  sighed — and  inly  cried 

With  grief  that  one  so  high  should  fall  so  low. 

He  snatched  a  flower  and  sniffed  its  scent, 

And  waved  it  toward  the  sunset  sky. 

Some  old  sweet  rapture  thro'  him  went 

And  kindled  in  his  bloodshot  eye. 

I  turned — and  inly  burned 

With  joy  that  one  so  low  should  rise  so  high. 


JAMES  H.   COUSINS  39 


THE 
CORNCRAKE 


I  HEAED  him  faintly,  far  away, 
(Break!  Break! — Break!  Break!) 
Calling  to  the  dawn  of  day, 
"  Break  !  Break  !  " 

I  heard  him  in  the  yellow  morn 
(Shake!  Shake ! —Shake !  Shake!) 
Shouting  thro'  the  rustling  corn, 
"  Shake  !  Shake !  " 

I  heard  him  near  where  one  lay  dead 

(Ache !  Ache !) 
Crying  among  poppies  red, 

"  Ache  !  Ache  !— Ache  !  Ache  !  " 

And  where  a  solemn  yew-tree  waves 

(Wake!  Wake!) 
All  night  he  shouts  among  the  graves, 

"  Wake  !  Wake  !— Wake  !  Wake  !  " 


4o  H.   L.   DOAK 


THE 
BEGGAR 

IF  I  had  a  farm,  an'  no  need  to  be  beggin'  my  bread, 
I'd  work  till  my  fingers  were  all  wore  away  to  the 

bone. 
It  wouldn't  be  me  you  would  see  lyin'  long  in  my 

bed; 
I'd  be  out  by  the  squeak  o'  the  day,  lookin'  after 

my  own. 

But  the  pride  of  industry  flies  out  at  the  raggedy 

holes 
In  a  coat  an'  a  trousers  an'  maybe  the  half  of  a 

shirt. 
You  rich,  let  you  wear  to  a  shadow  your  bodies  an' 

souls ; 
The  beggar  is  happy  to  lie  on  his  back  in  the  dirt. 

From  H,  L.  Doatfs  "  The  Three-Rock  Road,"  by  kind 
permission  of  The  Talbot  Press,  Ltd.,  Dublin. 


DARRELL  FIGGIS  41 


BOGAC 
BAN 

A  WOMAN  had  I  seen  as  I  rode  by, 
Stacking  her  turf  and  chanting  an  old  song ; 
But  now  her  voice  came  to  me  like  a  cry 
Wailing  an  old  immeasurable  wrong, 
Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  ban. 

Like  a  grey  ribbon  over  the  dark  world, 

Lying  along  the  bog  that  rose  each  side, 

The  white  road  strayed  upon  the  earth,  and  curled, 

Staying  its  journey  where  the  hills  abide, 

Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  ban. 

It  was  not  that  the  Night  had  laid  her  cloak 
About  the  valley,  going  thro'  the  sky, 
And  yet  a  dimness  like  a  distant  smoke 
Had  fallen  on  the  Earth  as  I  rode  by. 
Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  ban. 

Sweeping  the  sides  of  the  mountains  gaunt  and  high, 
Floating  about  their  faces  in  the  pool, 
A  shadowy  presence  with  a  rustling  sigh 
Crept  thro'  the  valley  till  the  valley  was  full : 
My  horse's  hoofs  fell  softly  as  on  wool : 
Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  ban. 


42  DARRELL  FIGGIS 

In  musical  measures  like  an  echo  dim 

The  hosting  held  its  secret  path  unseen  : 

Sliabh  Mor  looked  down  to  Mam,  and  Mam  to  him 

Looked  up,  with  Loch  na  n'Ean  between : 

Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  ban. 

A  new  world  and  a  new  scene  mixed  its  power 
With  the  old  world  and  the  old  scene  of  Earth's  face  : 
A  doorway  had  been  folded  back  an  hour ; 
And  silver  lights  fell  with  a  secret  grace 
Where  I  endeavoured  the  white  path  to  trace 
Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  ban. 

Within  my  mind  a  sudden  joy  had  birth, 
For  I  had  found  an  infinite  company  there  : 
The  hosting  of  the  companies  of  the  earth, 
The  hosting  of  the  companies  of  the  air, 
Riding  the  road  thro'  Bogac  ban. 
The  white,  strange  road  thro'  Bogac  ban. 


DARRELL  FIGGIS  43 


INISGALLUN 

THE  winds  are  roaring  out  of  the  West 

Where  the  clouds  are  in  stormy  saffron  drest, 

And  the  curlew  and  wild-geese  are  calling  and  crying 

Over  the  straits  in  Inisgallun, 

The  heron  and  cormorant  wailing  and  sighing, 

Mingling  a  wild  and  an  endless  tune. 

The  winds  are  roaring  out  of  the  West 

Over  the  waters  of  strife  and  unrest, 

The  shrieking  rain  in  the  low  pools  falling, 

The  strong  waves  beating  a  ceaseless  rune, 

And  the  heron  and  curlew  and  wild-geese  calling, 

Vainly  lamenting  in  Inisgallun. 

The  froth  and  fume  of  the  maddened  sea 

Spit  thro'  the  torn  air  ceaselessly ; 

And  the  dark  low  bog  in  anguish  crying, 

And  the  heather  wailing  in  bitter  pain ; 

For  the  winds  from  out  of  the  West  are  flying 

And  the  Earth  will  never  find  peace  again. 


44  EVA  GORE-BOOTH 


TO    DORA    SIGERSON    SHORTER 
"  THE    SAD    YEARS " 


You  whom  I  never  knew, 

Who  lived  remote,  afar, 

Yet  died  of  the  grief  that  tore  my  heart, 

Shall  we  live  through  the  ages  alone,  apart, 

Or  meet  where  the  souls  of  the  sorrowful  are 

Telling  the  tale  on  some  secret  star, 

How  your  death  from  the  root  of  my  sorrow  grew — 

You  whom  I  never  knew. 

Nay,  perhaps  in  the  coming  years, 

Down  here  on  our  earth  again, 

We  shall  meet  as  strangers  on  some  strange  shore, 

And  dream  we  have  known  one  another  before, 

In  a  past  life,  weeping  over  the  slain — 

Because  of  a  thrill  and  a  throb  of  pain, 

And  eyes  grown  suddenly  salt  with  tears  .  .  . 

Perhaps  ...  in  the  coming  years.  .  .  . 


PADRIC   GREGORY  45 


DOUBT  OF 
REMEMBRANCE 

IF  I,  who  loathe  my  remnant  of  sad  days, 

Could  make  her  hear  who  lies  beneath  the  sod, 

Could  call  her  spirit  from  the  starry-ways, 
Could  pluck  her  from  the  shielding  Arms  of  God. 

Could  let  her  breathe  again  the  April  wind, 
Or  hear  the  patt'ring  of  soft  summer  rain, 

Should  call  her  back  to  all  she  left  behind  .  .  . 
Oh,  would  her  coming  give  my  heart  more  pain  ? 

Oh,  would  her  eyes  scan  all  the  ambered  South, 
And  sweep,  tear-filled,  the  dark  hill-shadowing  sea, 

And  nothing  else  ?     Oh,  would  she  kiss  my  mouth  ? 
Oh,  God  !  oh  God  !    Would  she  remember  me  ? 


46  PADRIC  GREGORY 


THE 
DREAM-TELLER 


I  WAS  a  dreamer :  I  dreamed 
A  dream  at  the  dark  of  dawn, 
When  the  stars  hung  over  the  mountains 
And  morn  was  wan. 

I  dreamed  my  dream  at  morn, 
At  noon,  at  the  even-light, 
But  I  told  it  to  you,  dark  woman, 
One  soft  glad  night. 

And  the  sharing  of  my  dream 
Has  brought  me  only  this  : 
The  gnawing  pain  of  loss,  the  ache 
For  your  mouth  to  kiss, 

I  walked  the  high  hills  last  night, 

And  lo,  where  the  pale  stars  gleam, 

God's  cold  Voice  spake  :  "  If  you  dream  again, 

Tell  none  your  dream ; 

Tell  none  your  dream  !  " 


PADRIC  GREGORY  47 


THE 
WARNIN'S 


OCHANNEE,  ochannee, 
Ye  say  he's  dead.     God  rest  his  sowl ! 
But  mind  ye  this  :  I  thought  he'd  be ; 
For  yisterday  at  dinner-time  our  ouP 
Black  clock,  that's  sittin'  on  the  kitchen  shelf, 
An'  hasnae  worked  for  years,  struck  three ; 

An'  the  Blessid  Mother  o'  God,  herself 
Alone,  knows  how  it  frightened  me. 

Thin  last  night,  whin  I  wint  tae  bed, 

A  score  o'  times  I  crossed  m'self ; 

For  some  strange  dog  comminced  tae  howl 

Furmust  the  dure ; 
An'  in  the  hen-house  all  the  fowl 
Seemed  restless  ;  an'  my  beads  I  said 
For  William  John ;  for  I  felt  sure 

That  he  was  dead. 

Ochannee,  ochannee, 

God  rest  his  soul ! 


48  ISOBEL   HUME  (I.   H.   Fisher) 


HOME-COMING 

I  AM  come  home  again 
Back  to  the  old  grey  town, 
Battling  with  wind  and  rain 
As  I  go  up  and  down. 

I  am  come  from  the  South, 
With  never  a  greeting  said, 
And  no  one  to  kiss  my  mouth 
Now  that  my  love  is  dead. 

As  I  go  up  and  down 
In  the  loud  wind  and  rain, 
Through  the  familiar  town 
He  walks  with  me  again. 

A  woman  robbed  of  her  youth — 
The  ghost  of  a  lad  long  dead, 
With  never  a  kiss  on  my  mouth, 
And  never  a  greeting  said. 


ISOBEL  HUME  (I.   H.  Fisher)  49 


THE 
SLEEPER 


UNDER  white  eyelids! 
The  dreams  come  and  go, 
Kiss  her  on  her  rosy  mouth, 
And  wake  her  so. 

Under  white  eyelids 
The  dreams  are  all  done, 
Fold  her  hands  across  her  breftst- 
Let  her  sleep  on. 


50  DOUGLAS  HYDE 


IF    I    WERE 
TO    GO    WEST 


IF    I    were   to   go    west,    it    is   from   the   west    I 

would  not  come, 

On  the  hill  that  was  highest,  'tis  on  it  I  would  stand, 
It  is  the  fragrant  branch  I  would  soonest  pluck, 
And  it  is  my  own  love  I  would  quickest  follow. 

My  heart  is  as  black  as  a  sloe, 

Or  as  a  black  coal  that  would  be  burnt  in  a  forge, 

As  the  sole  of  a  shoe  upon  white  halls, 

And  there  is  great  melancholy  over  my  laugh. 

My  heart  is  bruised,  broken, 

Like  ice  upon  the  top  of  water, 

As  it  were  a  cluster  of  nuts  after  their  breaking, 

Or  a  young  maiden  after  her  marrying. 

My  love  is  of  the  colour  of  the  blackberries, 

And  the  colour  of  the  raspberry  on  a  fine  sunny 

day. 
Of  the  colour  of  the  darkest  heath-berries  of  the 

mountain, 
And  often  has  there  been  a  black  head  upon  a  bright 

body. 


DOUGLAS   HYDE  51 

Time  it  is  for  me  to  leave  this- town, 
The  stone  is  sharp  in  it,  and  the  mould  is  cold ; 
It  was  in  it  I  got  a  voice  (blame),  without  riches 
And  a  heavy  word  from  the  band  who  back-bite. 

I  denounce  love ;  woe  is  she  who  gave  it 
To  the  son  of  yon  woman,  who  never  understood  it. 
My  heart  in  my  middle,  sure  he  has  left  it  black, 
And  I  do  not  see  him  on  the  street  or  in  any  place. 


52  DOUGLAS  HYDE 


RINGLETED    YOUTH 
OF    MY    LOVE 

RINGLETED  youth  of  my  love, 

With  thy  locks  bound  loosely  behind  thee, 
You  passed  by  the  road  above, 

But  you  never  came  in  to  find  me ; 
Where  were  the  harm  for  you 

If  you  came  for  a  little  to  see  me, 
Your  kiss  is  a  wakening  dew 

Were  I  ever  so  ill  or  so  dreamy. 

If  I  had  golden  store 

I  would  make  a  nice  little  boreen 
To  lead  straight  up  to  his  door, 

The  door  of  the  house  of  my  storeen ; 
Hoping  to  God  not  to  miss 

The  sound  of  his  footfall  in  it, 
I  have  waited  so  long  for  his  kiss 

That  for  days  I  have  slept  not  a  minute. 

I  thought,  O  my  love !    You  were  so— 
As  the  moon  is,  or  sun  on  a  fountain, 

And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  snow, 
The  cold  snow  on  top  of  the  mountain ; 


DOUGLAS  HYDE  53 

And  I  thought  after  that,  you  were  more 
Like  God's  lamp  shining  to  find  me, 

Or  the  bright  star  of  knowledge  before, 
And  the  star  of  knowledge  behind  me. 

You  promised  me  high-heeled  shoes, 

And  satin  and  silk,  my  storeen, 
And  to  follow  me,  never  to  lose, 

Though  the  ocean  were  round  us  roaring ; 
Like  a  bush  in  a  gap  in  a  wall 

I  am  now  left  lonely  without  thee, 
And  this  house  I  grow  dead  of,  is  all 

That  I  see  around  or  about  me. 


54  DOUGLAS  HYDE 


THE    COOLEEN, 
OR   COOLUN 


A  HONEY   mist  on  a  day  of  frost,  in  a  dark  oak 

wood, 
And  love  for  thee  in  my  heart  in  me,  thou  bright, 

white,  and  good ; 
Thy   slender   form,    soft   and   warm,  thy   red   lips 

apart, 
Thou  hast  found  me,  and  hast  bound  me,  and  put 

grief  in  my  heart. 

In  fair-green  and  market,  men  mark  thee,  bright, 

young,  and  merry, 
Though  thou  hurt  them  like  foes  with  the  rose  of 

thy  blush  of  the  berry ; 

Her  cheeks  are  a  poppy,  her  eye  it  is  Cupid's  helper, 
But  each  foolish  man  dreams  that  its  beams  for 

himself  are. 

Whoe'er  saw  the  Cooleen  in  a  cool  dewy  meadow 
On  a  morning  in  summer  in  sunshine  and  shadow ; 
All  the  young  men  go  wild  for  her,  my  childeen, 

my  treasure. 
But  now  let  them  go  mope,   they've  no   hope  to 

possess  her. 


DOUGLAS  HYDE  55 

Let  us  roam,  O  my  darling,  afar  through  the  moun- 
tains, 

Drink   milk   of   the   goat,    wine    and    bulcaun   in 
fountains  ; 

With  music  and  play  every  day  from  my  lyre, 

And  leave  to  come  rest  on  my  breast  when  you  tire. 


56  LIONEL  JOHNSON 


DEAD 

To  Olivier  Georges  Destree 

IN  Merioneth,  over  the  sad  moor 
Drives  the  rain,  the  cold  wind  blows  : 
Past  the  ruinous  church  door, 
The  poor  procession  without  music  goes. 

Lonely  she  wandered  out  her  hour,  and  died. 

Now  the  mournful  curlew  cries 

Over  her,  laid  down  beside 
Death's  lonely  people  :   lightly  down  she  lies. 

In  Merioneth,  the  wind  lives  and  wails, 

On  from  hill  to  lonely  hill ; 
Down  the  loud,  triumphant  gales, 
A  spirit  cries  Be  strong  !   and  cries  Be  still  I 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  57 


TO 
MORFYDD 


A  VOICE  on  the  winds, 
A  voice  by  the  waters, 

Wanders  and  cries  : 
Oh  !  what  are  the  winds  ? 
And  what  are  the  waters? 

Mine  are  your  eyes! 


Western  the  winds  are, 
And  western  the  waters, 

Where  the  light  lies  : 
Oh  !  what  are  the  winds  ? 
And  what  are  the  waters? 

Mine  are  your  eyes! 


Cold,  cold,  grow  the  winds, 
And  wild  grow  the  waters, 

Where  the  sun  dies  : 
Oh!  what  are  the  winds? 
And  what  are  the  waters? 

Mine  are  your  eyes! 


58  LIONEL  JOHNSON 

And  down  the  night  winds, 
And  down  the  night  waters, 

The  music  flies : 
Oh!  what  are  the  winds? 
And  what  are  the  waters? 

Cold  be  the  winds, 
And  wild  be  the  waters, 

So  mine  be  your  eyes  i 


LIONEL  JOHNSON  59 


"TO    WEEP    IRISH" 

To  the  Rev.  Dr.  William  Barry 

LONG  Irish  melancholy  of  lament ! 
Voice  of  the  sorrow,  that  is  on  the  sea : 
Voice  of  that  ancient  mourning  music  sent 
From  Rama  childless  :  the  world  wails  in  thee. 

The  sadness  of  all  beauty  at  the  heart, 
The  appealing  of  all  souls  unto  the  skies, 
The  longing  locked  in  each  man's  breast  apart, 
Weep  in  the  melody  of  thine  old  cries. 

Mother  of  tears  !  sweet  Mother  of  sad  sons  ! 
All  mourners  of  the  world  weep  Irish,  weep 
Ever  with  thee  :  while  burdened  time  still  runs, 
Sorrows  reach  God  through  thee,  and  ask  for  sleep. 

And  though  thine  own  unsleeping  sorrow  yet 
Live  to  the  end  of  burdened  time,  in  pain : 
Still  sing  the  song  of  sorrow !  and  forget 
The  sorrow,  in  the  solace,  of  the  strain. 


60  FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE 


DESIRE 

IN    SPRING 

I  LOVE  the  cradle  songs  the  mothers  sing 

In  lonely  places  when  the  twilight  drops, 

The  slow  endearing  melodies  that  bring 

Sleep  to  the  weeping  lids ;    and,  when  she  stops, 

I  love  the  roadside  birds  upon  the  tops 

Of  dusty  hedges  in  a  world  of  Spring. 

And  when  the  sunny  rain  drips  from  the  edge 
Of  midday  wind,  and  meadows  lean  one  way, 
And  a  long  whisper  passes  thro'  the  sedge, 
Beside  the  broken  water  let  me  stay, 
While  these  old  airs  upon  my  memory  play, 
And  silent  changes  colour  up  the  hedge. 


FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE  61 


MY 
MOTHER 

GOD  made  my  mother  on  an  April  day, 

From  sorrow  and  the  mist  along  the  sea, 

Lost  birds'  and  wanderers'  songs  and  ocean  spray, 

And  the  moon  loved  her  wandering  jealously. 

Beside  the  ocean's  din  she  combed  her  hair, 
Singing  the  nocturne  of  the  passing  ships, 
Before  her  earthly  lover  found  her  there 
And  kissed  away  the  music  from  her  lips. 

She  came  unto  the  hills  and  saw  the  change 
That  brings  the  swallow  and  the  geese  in  turns. 
But  there  was  not  a  grief  she  deemed  strange, 
For  there  is  that  in  her  which  always  mourns. 

Kind  heart  she  has  for  all  on  hill  or  wave 
Whose  hopes  grew  wings  like  ants  to  fly  away. 
I  bless  the  God  Who  such  a  mother  gave 
This  poor  bird-hearted  singer  of  a  day. 


62  SHANE  LESLIE 


FLEET 
STREET 


I  NEVER  see  the  newsboys  run 
Amid  the  whirling  street, 
With  swift  untiring  feet, 

To  cry  the  latest  venture  done, 

But  I  expect  one  day  to  hear 
Them  cry  the  crack  of  doom 
And  risings  from  the  tomb, 

With  great  Archangel  Michael  near; 

And  see  them  running  from  the  Fleet 
As  messengers  of  God, 
With  Heaven's  tidings  shod 

About  their  brave  unwearied  feet. 


SHANE  LESLIE  63 


FOREST 
SONG 


ALL  around  I  heard  the  whispering  larches 
Swinging  to  the  low-lipped  wind  ; 
God,  they  piped,  is  lilting  in  our  arches, 
For  He  loveth  leafen  kind. 

Ferns  I  heard,  unfolding  from  their  slumber, 
Say  confiding  to  the  reed : 
God  well  knoweth  us,  Who  loves  to  number 
Us  and  all  our  fairy  seed. 

Voices  hummed  as  of  a  multitude 
Crowding  from  their  lowly  sod ; 
'Twas  the  stricken  daisies  where  I  stood, 
Crying  to  the  daisies'  God. 


64  SHANE  LESLIE 


HOLY 
GROSS 

IT  is  the  bare  and  leafless  Tree 
Our  sins  once  sowed  on  Calvary, 
And  mockers  digged  with  trembling  knee- 
Holy  Cross. 

It  is  the  dead  unpitying  Wood, 
That  like  a  crimson  pillar  stood, 
Where  none  unmoved  unweeping  could — 
Holy  Cross. 

O  fearful  sight  foretold  to  man, 
The  cloven  spar,  the  sacred  span, 
Whence  God's  atoning  Blood  once  ran — 
Holy  Cross. 

It  is  the  Holy  Gibbet  Tree, 
All  stained  with  Love's  last  agony 
And  marked  with  awful  mystery — 
Holy  Cross. 

What  stains  are  these  incarnadine, 
What  scars  are  these  more  red  than  wine 
Of  more  than  human  Passion  sign  ? 
Holy  Cross. 


SHANE  LESLIE  65 

It  is  the  sunless  stricken  Tree, 
Upon  whose  branches  sore  to  see 
O  mystery,  died  One  of  Three — 
Holy  Cross. 

What  storm  swept  o'er  its  boughs  that  day, 
When  God  to  God  did  sorely  pray, 
And  human  guilt  ebbed  slow  away — 
Holy  Cross. 

When  earth  shall  smoke  and  sun  shall  flee, 
Alone  unmoved  o'er  sinking  sea 
Shall  stand  one  all-redeeming  Tree — 
Holy  Cross. 


66  SHANE  LESLIE 


MUCKISH 
MOUNTAIN 

LIKE  a  sleeping  swine  upon  the  skyline, 
Muckish,  thou  art  shadowed  out, 
Grubbing  up  the  rubble  of  the  ages 
With  your  broken,  granite  snout. 

Muckish,  greatest  pig  in  Ulster's  oakwoods, 
Littered  out  of  rock  and  fire, 
Deep  you  thrust  your  mottled  flanks  for  cooling 
Underneath  the  peaty  mire. 

Long  before  the  Gael  was  young  in  Ireland, 
.You  were  ribbed  and  old  and  grey, 
Muckish,  you  have  long  outstayed  his  staying, 
You  have  seen  him  swept  away. 

Muckish,  you  will  not  forget  the  people 

Of  the  laughing  speech  and  eye, 

They  who  gave  you  name  of  Pig-back-mountain 

And  the  Heavens  for  a  sty ! 


W.  M.  LETTS  67 


BOYS 

I  DO  be  thinking  God  must  laugh 

The  time  He  makes  a  boy ; 

All  element  the  creatures  are, 

And  divilmint  and  joy. 

Careless  and  gay  as  a  wad  in  a  window,1 

Swift  as  a  redshanks,  and  wild  as  a  hare ; 

Heartscalds  and  torments — but  sorra  a  mother 

Has  got  one  to  spare. 

«  "  Wad  in  a  window."  The  bunch  of  rags  so  often  seen 
fluttering  from  the  broken  windows  of  an  Irish  cabin ;  hence  the 
frequent  use  of  this  comparison. 


68  W.   M.   LETTS 


IN    THE 
STREET 

I'VE  seen  a  woman  kneeling  down 

In  the  dirty  street. 
An'  she  took  no  heed  of  her  tattered  gown, 

Or  the  broken  boots  on  her  feet ; 
An'  she  took  no  heed  of  the  people  there, 
Rich  and  poor  that  would  stand  and  stare 
At  a  woman  kneeling  in  prayer 

In  the  street. 

For  the  thing  that  she  spied 

At  the  back  of  the  great  shop  window  pane 

Was  a  cross  with  a  Figure  crucified. 
She  took  no  heed  of  the  driving  rain, 
An'  thim  that  would  turn  to  look  again ; 

She  took  no  heed  of  the  noisy  street, 
But  knelt  down  there  at  her  Saviour's  feet. 
What  matter  at  all  what  the  place  might  be  ? 

To  one  poor  soul  it  was  Calvary. 


W.   M.   LETTS  69 


IRISH 
SKIES 

IN  London  here  the  streets  are  grey,  an'  grey  the 

sky  above  ; 
I  wish    I    were    in    Ireland    to    see    the    skies    I 

love — 
Pearl  cloud,  buff  cloud,  the  colour  of  a  dove. 

All  day  I  travel  English  streets,  but  in  my  dreams 
I  tread 

The  far  Glencullen  road  and  see  the  soft  sky  over- 
head, 

Grey  clouds,  white  clouds,  the  wind  has  shepherded. 

At  night  the  London  lamps  shine  bright,  but  what 

are  they  to  me  ? 
I've  seen  the  moonlight  in  Glendhu,  the  stars  above 

Glenchree — 
The  lamps  of  Heav'n  give  light  enough  for  me. 

The  city  in  the  winter  time  puts  on  a  shroud  of 

smoke, 
But  the  sky  above  the  Three  rock  was  blue  as  Mary's 

cloak, 
Ruffled  like  dove's  wings  when  the  wind  awoke. 


7o  W.   M.   LETTS 

I  dream  I  see  the  Wicklow  hills  by  evening  sunlight 

kissed, 
An'  every  glen  and  valley  there  brimful  of  radiant 

mist — 
The  jewelled  sky  topaz  and  amethyst. 

I  wake  to  see  the  London  streets,  the  sombre  sky 

above, 
God's  blessing  on  the  far-off  roads,  and  on  the  skies 

I  love, — 
Pearl  feather,  grey  feather,  wings  of  a  dove. 


W.   M.   LETTS  71 


THE 
HARBOUR 

I  THINK  if  I  lay  dying  in  some  land 
Where  Ireland  is  no  more  than  just  a  name, 
My  soul  would  travel  back  to  find  that  strand 
From  whence  it  came. 

I'd  see  the  harbour  in  the  evening  light, 
The  old  men  staring  at  some  distant  ship, 
The  fishing-boats  they  fasten  left  and  right 
Beside  the  slip. 

The  sea-wrack  lying  on  the  wind-swept  shore, 
The  grey  thorn  bushes  growing  in  the  sand 
Our  Wexford  coast  from  Arklow  to  Cahore — 
My  native  land. 

The  little  houses  climbing  up  the  hill, 
Sea  daisies  growing  in  the  sandy  grass, 
The  tethered  goats  that  wait  large-eyed  and  still 
To  watch  you  pass. 

The  women  at  the  well  with  dripping  pails, 
Their  men  colloguing  by  the  harbour  wall, 
The  coils  of  rope,  the  nets,  the  old  brown  sails, 
I'd  know  them  all. 


72  W.  M.  LETTS 

And  then  the  Angelus — I'd  surely  see 
The  swaying  bell  against  a  golden  sky, 
So  God,  Who  kept  the  love  of  home  in  me, 
Would  let  me  die. 


EDWARD  E.   LYSAGHT  73 


THE 

MARCH    FAIR 


THREE  o'clock,  and  with  a  start 

I  waken,  cursing  fair  and  mart. 

And  the  bullocks,  if  they  knew, 

Surely  would  be  cursing  too ; 

Seven  English  miles  have  they, 

Long  before  the  dawn  of  day, 

More  than  seven  miles  to  tramp. 

(Where  the  divil  is  the  lamp  ?) 

Bullocks  !     In  your  innocence 

Yours  a  day  of  abstinence. 

Two  long  grey  hours  'twill  take  of  you 

Before  you  land  in  Killaloe. 

Then  when  we're  there  we'll  stand  forlorn 

Like  long  wooled  sheep  that  have  been  shorn, 

Too  early  in  the  summer. 
'Tis  eight  o'clock  and  ne'er  a  bid  : 
What  fools  to  come — yet  well  we  did, 
For  out  from  yonder  caravan, 
Where  Mrs.  Browne  wields  her  tin-can 
And  serves  cold  herrings,  tea  and  bread 
To  Michael,  Paddy,  Tom  and  Ned, 
There  comes  a  man  who's  slep'  it  out : 
He's  a  shipper,  there's  no  doubt. 


74  EDWARD  E.  LYSAGHT 

I  know  him,  sure,  'tis  Johnny  Curtin, 

He'll  buy  our  cattle  now  for  certain. 

I  ask  a  hundred  for  the  ten, 

He  scans  them  slightingly  and  then 

He  turned  away  without  a  word. 

I  wink  my  eye  to  Mick,  the  herd. 

"  Come  here,  I  want  you,  Sir,"  cries  he, 

"  What  is  the  bullocks'  price  to  be  ?  " 

— "  They're  not  worth  nine."     But  Jim  Molony 

(We  all  know  Jim,  the  poor  old  crony) 

Puts  in  his  word  without  a  smile : 

"  I  don't  care  which,  but  wait  awhile 

Ask  nine  fifteen  and  cut  a  crown." 

— "  Is  that  the  way  you'd  beat  me  down  ?  " 

John  strikes  my  hand  and  goes  away. 

And  then  comes  back  again  to  say 

He'll  not  break  Jim  Molony 's  word. 

(We  all  say  that,  we're  so  absurd) 

And  so  at  last  the  bargain's  struck ; 

It's  left  to  me  about  the  luck. 

"  Begob !  "  says  Mick,  "  for  all  his  tricks 

They're  dear  enough  at  nine  twelve  six." 

So  later  on  when  we've  been  paid, 

We'll  drink  their  health  in  lemonade. 


(The  divil  sweep  those  pledges.) 
Herded  with  others,  scores  and  scores, 
Our  bullocks,  mixed  with  cows  and  stores, 
Are  driven  through  the  thronging  lair 
Out  to  the  railway  station,  where 


EDWARD  F,   LYSAGHT  75 

Numbers  of  trucks,  all  just  the  same, 
Swallow  the  beasts  we  knew  by  name, 
Which  lose  in  leaving  Mick  and  me 
Their  individuality. 
God  !  on  what  venture  ye  embark, 
To  feed  at  length  some  city  clerk 
Whose  widest  world  is  Blackpool. 


76  THOMAS  MACDONAGH 


TO 
EOGHAN 

WILL  you  gaze  after  the  dead,  gaze  into  the  grave  ? — 
Strain  your  eyes  in  the  darkness,  knowing  it  vain  ? 
Strain  your  voice  in  the  silence  that  never  gave 
To  any  voice  or  yours  an  answer  again  ? 

She  whom  you  loved  long  years  is  dead,  and  you 
Stay,  and  you  cannot  bear  it  and  cry  for  her — 
And  life  will  cure  this  pain — or  death  :    you  too 
Shall  quiet  lie  where  cries  no  echo  stir. 

From  Thomas  MacDonagk's  "  Poems,"  by  kind 
permission  of  the  Talbot  Press,  Ltd.,  Dublin. 


JOHN  FRANCIS  MACENTEE  77 


I     MADE     MY    LOVE 

A    LITTLE    SECRET    HOUSE 


I  MADE  my  love  a  little  secret  house, 

Of  emerald  moss  and  silver  birchen  boughs, 

Wherein  to  while  away  the  sunny  hours ; 
And  in  the  roof  I  set  a  bubble,  bright 
With  rainbow  colours  of  the  moon,  and  light, 

Soft,     golden    radiance    of    the    dew-drenched 
flowers. 


I  made  my  thoughts  her  silent  servitors, 
Clad  them  in  soft,  sad,  silvery  gossamers, 
Weft  in  the  twilight  by  a  dryad  sighing 
For  a  forsaken  love.     I  draped  the  walls 
With  blue-grey  curtains  of  the  night  that  falls, 

Star-sprinkled,  when  the  autumn-time  is  dying. 


And  all  the  little  songs  of  love  that  die 
Unbirthed  in  the  heart's  satiety, 
The  little  whispers  that  the  noisy  world 
Hath  deadened  into  silence  :    these  I  brought 
To  be  her  minstrels,  that  her  sleep  be  fraught 

With  quietude,  as  flower  in  slumber  furled. 


78  JOHN  FRANCIS  MACENTEE 

And  then  I  led  her  in.     She  gazed  around, 
As  though  with  all  the  quietness  astound  : 
She  lifted  up  her  little  mouth  to  speak ; 
Tremoured  a  little,  while  her  frightened  eyes 
Grew  bright,  then  dark,  and  dark,  as  daylight  dies  ; 

And  life  and  colour  faded  from  her  cheek. 

She  looked  at  me  and  said  :  "  Ah,  let  me  live, 
I  love  the  sun,  the  mountain-winds  that  give 
Spontaneous  struggle  :  all  the  white  and  red 
Of  life.    Dream-shackled,  Love,  I  could  not  bide." 
Taking  her  hand  I  led  my  love  outside 

And  let  her  go.     The  dream  I  dreamed  was  dead. 

From  J.  F.  MacEntee's   "Poems,"    by    kind 
permission  of  the  Talbot  Press,  Ltd.,  Dublin. 


PATRICK  MACGILL  79 


DEDICATION 

I  SPEAK  with  a  proud  tongue  of  the  people  who  were 

And  the  people  who  are, 

The  worthy  of  Ardara,  the  Rosses  and  Inishkeel, 

My  kindred — 

The  people  of  the  hills  and  the  dark-haired  passes 

My  neighbours  on  the  lift  of  the  brae, 

In  the  lap  of  the  valley. 

To  them  Slainthe  ! 

I  speak  of  the  old  men, 

The  wrinkle-rutted, 

Who  dodder  about  foot-weary — 

For  their  day  is  as  the  day  that  has  been  and  is 

no  more — 

Who  warm  their  feet  by  the  fire, 
And  recall  memories  of  the  times  that  are  gone ; 
Who  kneel  in  the  lamplight  and  pray 
For  the  peace  that  has  been  theirs — 
And  who  beat  one  dry-veined  hand  against  another 
Even  in  the  sun — 
For  the  coldness  of  death  is  on  them. 

I  speak  of  the  old  women 

Who  danced  to  yesterday's  fiddle 

And  dance  no  longer. 


8o  PATRICK  MACGILL 

They  sit  in  a  quiet  place  and  dream 

And  see  visions 

Of  what  is  to  come, 

Of  their  issue, 

Which  has  blossomed  to  manhood  and  womanhood- 

And  seeing  thus 

They  are  happy 

For  the  day  that  was  leaves  no  regrets, 

And  peace  is  theirs, 

And  perfection. 

I  speak  of  the  strong  men 

Who  shoulder  their  burdens  in  the  hot  day, 

Who  stand  on  the  market-place 

And  bargain  in  loud  voices, 

Showing  their  stock  to  the  world. 

Straight  the  glance  of  their  eyes — 

Broad-shouldered, 

Supple. 

Under  their  feet  the  holms  blossom, 

The  harvest  yields. 

And  their  path  is  of  prosperity. 

I  speak  of  the  women, 

Strong-hipped,  full-bosomed, 

Who  drive  the  cattle  to  graze  at  dawn, 

Who  milk  the  cows  at  dusk. 

Grace  in  their  homes, 

And  in  the  crowded  ways 

Modest  and  seemly — 

Mother  of  children  ! 


PATRICK   MACGILL  81 

I  speak  of  the  children 

Of  the  many  townlands, 

Blossoms  of  the  Bogland, 

Flowers  of  the  Valley, 

Who  know  not  yesterday,  nor  to-morrow, 

And  are  happy, 

The  pride  of  those  who  have  begot  them. 

And  thus  it  is, 

Ever  and  always, 

In  Ardara,  the  Rosses  and  Inishkeel — 

Here,  as  elsewhere, 

The  Weak,  the  Strong,  and  the  Blossoming — 

And  thus  my  kindred. 

To  them  Slainthe. 


82  SUSAN  MITCHELL 


THE 

LIVING    CHALICE 

THE  Mother  sent  me  on  the  holy  quest 
Timid  and  proud  and  curiously  dressed 
In  vestures  by  her  hand  wrought  wondrously ; 
An  eager  burning  heart  she  gave  to  me. 
The  Bridegroom's  Feast  was  set  and  I  drew  nigh- 
Master  of  Life,  Thy  Cup  has  passed  me  by. 

Before  new-dressed  I  from  the  Mother  came, 
In  dreams  I  saw  the  wondrous  Cup  of  Flame ; 
Ah,  Divine  Chalice,  how  my  heart  drank  deep, 
Waking  I  sought  the  Love  I  knew  asleep. 
The  Feast  of  Life  was  set  and  I  drew  nigh — 
Master  of  Life,  Thy  Cup  has  passed  me  by. 

Eyes  of  the  Soul,  awake,  awake  and  see 
Growing  within  the  Ruby  Radiant  Tree, 
Sharp  pain  hath  wrung  the  Clusters  of  my  Vine ; 
My  heart  is  rose-red  with  its  brimmed  wine. 
Thou  hast  new-set  the  Feast  and  I  draw  nigh — 
Master  of  Life  take  me,  Thy  Cup  am  I. 


MOIRA  O'NEILL"  83 


CORRYMEELA 

OVER  here  in  England  I'm  helpin'  wi'  the  hay, 
An'  I  wisht  I  was  in  Ireland  the  livelong  day ; 
Weary  on  the  English  hay,  an'  sorra  take  the  wheat ! 
Och !  Corrymeela  on'  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

There's  a  deep  dumb  river  flowin'  by  beyont  the 

heavy  trees, 
This  livin'  air  is  moithered  wi'  the  hummin'  o'  the 

bees ; 
I   wisht   I'd   hear  the   Claddagh   burn   go   runnin' 

through  the  heat 
Past  Corrymeela  wi'  the  blue  sky  over  it. 

The  people  that's  in  England  is  richer  nor  the  Jews, 
There's  not  the  smallest  young  gossoon  but  thravels 

in  his  shoes ! 
I'd  give  the  pipe  between  me  teeth  to  see  a  barefut 

child, 
Och !    Corrymeela  an?  the  low  south  wind. 

Here's  hands  so  full  o'  money  an'  hearts  so  full  o'  care, 
By  the  luck  of  love!    I'd  still  go  light  for  all  I 

did  go  bare. 
"  God  save  ye,  colleen  dhas,"  I  said  :    the  girl  she 

thought  me  wild  ! 
Far  Corrymeela,  an1  the  low  south  wind. 


84  "MOIRA  O'NEILL" 

D'ye  mind  me  now,  the  song  at  night  is  mortial 

hard  to  raise, 
The  girls  are  heavy  goin'  here,  the  boys  are  ill  to 

plase ; 
When  ones't  I'm  out  this  workin'  hive,  'tis  I'll  be 

back  again — 
Aye,  Corrymeela,  in  the  same  soft  rain. 

The  puff  o'  smoke  from  one  ould  roof  before  an 

English  Town  ! 
For  a  shaugh  wid  Andy  Feelan  here  I'd  give  a  silver 

crown, 
For  a  curl  o'  hair  like  Mollie's  ye'll  ask  the  like  in 

vain, 
Sweet  Corrymeela,  an'  the  same  soft  rain. 


SEUMAS  O'SULLIVAN  85 


THE 
ROSSES 


MY  sorrow  that  I  am  not  by  the  little  dun 

By  the  lake  of  the  starlings  at  Rosses  under  the 

hill, 

And  the  larks  there,  singing  over  the  fields  of  dew, 
Or  evening  there,  and  the  sedges  still. 
For  plain  I  see  now  the  length  of  the  yellow  sand, 
And  Lissadell  far  off  and  its  leafy  ways, 
And  the  holy  mountain  whose  mighty  heart 
Gather  into  it  all  the  coloured  days. 
My  sorrow  that  I  am  not  by  the  little  dun 
By  the  lake  of  the  starlings  at  evening  when  all 

is  still, 

And  still  in  whispering  sedges  the  herons  stand, 
'Tis  there  I  would  nestle  at  rest  till  the  quivering 

moon 
Uprose  in  the  golden  quiet  over  the  hill. 


86  SEUMAS  O'SULLIVAN 


THE 

TWILIGHT    PEOPLE 

IT  is  a  whisper  among  the  hazel  bushes ; 
It  is  a  long,  low,  whispering  voice  that  fills 
With  a  sad  music  the  bending  and  swaying  rushes ; 
It  is  a  heart-beat  deep  in  the  quiet  hills. 

Twilight  people,  why  will  you  still  be  crying, 
Crying  and  calling  to  me  out  of  the  trees  ? 
For  under  the  quiet  grass  the  wise  are  lying, 
And  all  the  strong  ones  are  gone  over  the  seas. 

And  I  am  old,  and  in  my  heart  at  your  calling 
Only  the  old  dead  dreams  a-fluttering  go ; 
As  the  wind,  the  forest  wind,  in  its  falling 
Sets  the  withered  leaves  fluttering  to  and  fro. 


P.   H.   PEARSE  87 


A    WOMAN    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN 
KEENS    HER    SON 
(English  Version) 


GRIEF  on  the  death,  it  has  blackened  my  heart : 
It  has  snatched  my  love  and  left  me  desolate, 
Without  friend  or  companion  under  the  roof  of  my 

house 
But  this  sorrow  in  the  midst  of  me,  and  I  keening. 

As  I  walked  the  mountain  in  the  evening 
The  birds  spoke  to  me  sorrowfully, 
The  sweet  snipe  spoke  and  the  voiceful  curfew 
Relating  to  me  that  my  darling  was  dead. 

I  called  to  you  and  your  voice  I  heard  not, 

I  called  again  and  I  got  no  answer, 

I   kissed   your  mouth,    and    O   God,   how    cold    it 

was  ! 
Ah,  cold  is  your  bed  in  the  lonely  churchyard. 

O  green-sodded  grave  in  which  my  child  is, 
Little  narrow  grave,  since  you  are  his  bed, 
My  blessing  on  you,  and  thousands  of  blessings 
On  the  green  sods  that  are  over  my  treasure. 


88  ,          P.   H.   PEARSE 

Grief  on  the  death,  it  cannot  be  denied, 
It  lays  low,  green  and  withered  together, — 
And  O  gentle  little  son,  what  tortures  me  is 
That  your  fair  body  should  be  making  clay  ! 


P.   H.   PEARSE  89 


THE 
WAYFARER 

(English  Version) 

THE  beauty  of  the  world  hath  made  me  sad, 

This  beauty  that  will  pass  ; 

Sometimes  my  heart  hath  shaken  with  great  joy 

To  see  a  leaping  squirrel  in  a  tree, 

Or  a  red  lady-bird  upon  a  stalk, 

Or  little  rabbits  in  a  field  at  evening, 

Lit  by  a  slanting  sun, 

Or  some  green  hill  where  shadows  drifted  by 

Some  quiet  hill  where  mountainy  man  hath  sown 

And  soon  would  reap  ;   near  to  the  gate  of  Heaven  ; 

Or  children  with  bare  feet  upon  the  sands 

Of  some  ebbed  sea,  or  playing  on  the  streets 

Of  little  towns  in  Connacht, 

Things  young  and  happy. 

And  then  my  heart  hath  told  me : 

These  will  pass, 

Will  pass  and  change,  will  die  and  be  no  more, 

Things  bright  and  green,  things  young  and  happy ; 

And  I  have  gone  upon  my  way 

Sorrowful. 


90  JOSEPH  M.  PLUNKETT 


WHITE    DOVE 

OF    THE    WILD    DARK    EYES 

WHITE  Dove  of  the  wild  dark  eyes 

Faint  silver  flutes  are  calling 

From  the  night  where  the  star-mists  rise 

And  fire-flies  falling 

Tremble  in  starry  wise, 

Is  it  you  they  are  calling  ? 

White  Dove  of  the  beating  heart 
Shrill  golden  reeds  are  thrilling 
In  the  woods  where  the  shadows  start, 
While  moonbeams,  filling 
With  dreams  the  floweret's  heart 
Its  dreams  are  thrilling. 

White  Dove  of  the  folded  wings, 
Soft  purple  night  is  crying 
With  the  voice  of  fairy  things 

For  you,  lest  dying 

They  miss  your  flashing  wings, 

Your  splendorous  flying. 

From  J.  M.  PlunketCs  "  Poems"  by  kind  per- 
mission of  the  Talbot  Press,  Ltd.,  Dublin. 


T.  W.  ROLLESTON  91 


SONG 

OF    MAELDUIN 

THERE  are  veils  that  lift,  there  are  bars  that  fall, 
There  are  lights  that  beckon,  and  winds  that  call — 

Good-bye ! 

There  are  hurrying  feet,  and  we  dare  not  wait, 
For  the  hour  is  on  us — the  hour  of  Fate, 
The  circling  hour  of  the  flaming  gate — 
Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye  ! 

Fair,  fair  they  shine  through  the  burning  zone — 
The  rainbow  gleams  of  a  world  unknown ; 

Good-bye ! 

And  oh  !    to  follow,  to  seek,  to  dare, 
When,  step  by  step,  in  the  evening  air 
Floats  down  to  meet  us  the  cloudy  stair  I 
Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye  ! 

The  cloudy  stair  of  the  Brig  o'  Dread 

Is  the  dizzy  path  that  our  feet  must  tread — 

Good-bye ! 

O  children  of  Time — O  Nights  and  Days, 
That  gather  and  wonder  and  stand  at  gaze, 
And  wheeling  stars  in  your  lonely  ways, 
Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye  ! 


92  T.   W.   ROLLESTON 

The  music  calls  and  the  gates  unclose, 
Onward  and  onward  the  wild  way  goes — 

Good-bye  ! 

We  die  in  the  bliss  of  a  great  new  birth, 
O  fading  phantoms  of  pain  and  mirth, 
O  fading  loves  of  the  old  green  earth — 
Good-bye — good-bye — good-bye  ! 


T.  W.   ROLLESTON  93 


THE    DEAD    AT    CLONMACNOIS 
From   the    Irish   of   Enoch    O'    Gillan 

IN  a  quiet  water'd  land,  a  land  of  roses, 

Stands  Saint  Kieran's  city  fair  : 
And  the  warriors  of  Erin  in  their  famous  generations 

Slumber  there. 

There  beneath  the  dewy  hillside  sleep  the  noblest 

Of  the  clan  of  Conn, 
Each  below  his  stone  with  name  in  branching  Ogham 

And  the  sacred  knot  thereon. 

There  they  laid  to  rest  the  seven  Kings  of  Tara, 

There  the  sons  of  Cairbre  sleep — 
Battle-banners  of  the  Gael,  that  in  Kieran's  plain 
of  crosses 

Now  their  final  hosting  keep. 

And  in  Clonmacnois  they  laid  the  men  of  Teffia, 

And  right  many  a  lord  of  Breagh ; 
Deep  the  sod  above  Clan  Creide  and  Clan  Conaill, 

Kind  in  hall  and  fierce  in  fray. 

Many  and  many  a  son  of  Conn,  the  Hundred-Fighter, 

In  the  red  earth  lies  at  rest ; 
Many  a  blue  eye  of  Clan  Colman  the  turf  covers, 

Many  a  swan-white  breast. 


94  R.  ROWLEY 


THINKIN' 
LONG 


IT'S  time  the  lamp  was  lit, 

A  sit  my  lone, 

Watchin'  the  firelight  play 

On  the  cracked  hearth-stone. 

Oul'  dreams  go  through  my  head, 

Like  words  o'  a  song. 

A'm  sittin'  here  my  lone, 

An*  A'm  thinkin'  long. 

A  poor  ouP  doitered  man 
That  yammers  an'  girns, 
A  was  quarely  differ'nt  oncet 
Wi'  wife  an'  bairns. 
The  house  was  full  o'  weans 
All  straight  an'  strong, 
It's  desp'rit  empty  now, 
An  A'm  thinkin'  long. 

It's  time  the  lamp  was  lit — 
Och,  let  it  stan' ! 
What  need  is  there  o'  light 
For  an  ouP  done  man  ? 
The  house  is  empty  now, 
An*  the  Kirkyard  throng ; 
A'm  sittin'  here  my  lone, 
An  A'm  thinkin'  long. 


R.   ROWLEY  95 


WITCHCRAFT 


Bm  Alec  o'  the  Hill 
Is  a  strong  farmer,  an'  rich ; 
OuP  Biddy  in  the  loanin' 
Is  poor,  an'  a  witch. 

Big  Alec  is  failin' 
He  dwinnles  an'  wastes ; 
The  blight's  in  his  pitaties, 
The  murrain's  on  his  bastes. 

Big  Alec  sits  an*  wonders, 
An*  thinks,  but  doesn't  know 
The  ill-turn  he  done  Biddy 
Twenty  years  ago. 

The  good  Lord  protect  us 

From  secret  harms  ! 

A  wouldn't  stan'  in  big  Alec's  shoes 

For  all  his  farms. 


96  DORA  SIGERSON 


CAN 

DOOV    DEELISH 

CAN  Doov  DEELISH,  beside  the  sea 
I  stand  and  stretch  my  hands  to  thee 

Across  the  world. 
The  riderless  horses  race  to  shore 
With  thundering  hoofs  and  shuddering,  hoar, 

Blown  manes  uncurled. 

Can  doov  deelish,  I  cry  to  thee 
Beyond  the  world,  beneath  the  sea, 

Thou  being  dead. 

Where  hast  thou  hidden  from  the  beat 
Of  crushing  hoofs  and  tearing  feet 

Thy  dear  black  head  ? 

God  bless  the  woman,  whoever  she  be, 
From  the  tossing  waves  will  recover  thee 

And  lashing  wind. 

Who  will  take  thee  out  of  the  wind  and  storm, 
Dry  thy  wet  face  on  her  bosom  warm 

And  lips  so  kind  ? 

I  not  to  know.    It  is  hard  to  pray, 

But  I  shall  for  this  woman  from  day  to  day, 

"  Comfort  my  dead, 

The  sport  of  the  winds  and  the  play  of  the  sea." 
I  loved  thee  too  well  for  this  thing  to  be, 

O  dear  black  head  I 


DORA  SIGERSON  97 


THE 
COMFORTERS 

WHEN  I  crept  over  the  hill,  broken  with  tears, 
When  I  crouched  down  on  the  grass,  dumb  in  despair, 
I  heard  the  soft  croon  of  the  wind  bend  to  my  ears, 
I  felt  the  light  kiss  of  the  wind  touching  my  hair. 

When  I  stood  lone  on  the  height  my  sorrow  did 

speak, 

As  I  went  down  the  hill,  I  cried  and  I  cried, 
The  soft  little  hands  of  the  rain  stroking  my  cheek, 
The  kind  little  feet  of  the  rain  ran  by  my  side. 

When  I  went  to  thy  grave,  broken  with  tears, 
When  I  crouched  down  in  the  grass,  dumb  in  despair, 
I  heard  the  sweet  croon  of  the  wind  soft  in  my  ears, 
I  felt  the  kind  lips  of  the  wind  touching  my  hair. 

When  I  stood  lone  by  thy  cross,  sorrow  did  speak, 
When  I  went  down  the  long  hill,  I  cried  and  I  cried, 
The  soft  little  hands  of  the  rain  stroked  my  pale 

cheek, 
The  kind  little  feet  of  the  rain  ran  by  my  side. 


9g  JAMES  STEPHENS 


BLUE    STARS 
AND    GOLD 

WHILE  walking  through  the  trams  and  cars 
I  chanced  to  look  up  at  the  sky, 
And  saw  that  it  was  full  of  stars. 

So  starry-sown  that  you  could  not, 
With  any  care,  have  stuck  a  pin 
Through  any  single  vacant  spot. 

And  some  were  shining  furiously, 

And  some  were  big  and  some  were  small, 

But  all  were  beautiful  to  see. 

Blue  stars  and  gold,  a  sky  of  grey, 
The  air  between  a  velvet  pall ; 
I  could  not  take  my  eyes  away. 

And  there  I  sang  this  little  psalm 
Most  awkwardly,  because  I  was 
Standing  between  a  car  and  tram. 


JAMES  STEPHENS  99 


IN   THE 
POPPY   FIELD 


MAD  PATSY  said,  he  said  to  me, 
That  every  morning  he  could  see 
An  angel  walking  on  the  sky ; 
Across  the  sunny  skies  of  morn 
He  threw  great  handfuls  far  and  nigh 
Of  poppy  seed  among  the  corn  ; 
And  then,  he  said,  the  angels  run 
To  see  the  poppies  in  the  sun. 

A  poppy  is  a  devil  weed, 
I  said  to  him — he  disagreed : 
He  said  the  devil  had  no  hand 
In  spreading  flowers  tall  and  fair 
Through  corn  and  rye  and  meadow  land, 
By  garth  and  barrow  everywhere  : 
The  devil  has  not  any  flower, 
But  only  money  in  his  power. 

And  then  he  stretched  out  in  the  sun 
And  rolled  upon  his  back  for  fun : 
He  kicked  his  legs  and  roared  for  joy 
Because  the  sun  was  shining  down, 
He  said  he  was  a  little  boy 
And  would  not  work  for  any  clown : 
He  ran  and  laughed  behind  a  bee, 
And  danced  for  very  ecstasy. 


ioo  JAMES  STEPHENS 


O'CONNELL 
BRIDGE 

IN  Dublin  town  the  people  see 
Gorgeous  clouds  sail  gorgeously, 
They  are  finer,  I  declare, 
Than  the  clouds  of  anywhere. 

A  swirl  of  blue  and  red  and  green, 
A  stream  of  blinding  gold,  a  sheen 
From  silver  hill  and  pearly  ridge 
Comes  each  evening  on  the  bridge. 

So  when  you  walk  in  a  field,  look  down, 
Lest  you  tramp  on  a  daisy's  crown, 
But  in  a  city  look  always  high 
And  watch  the  beautiful  clouds  go  by. 


JAMES  STEPHENS  101 


STEPHEN'S 
GREEN 


THE  wind  stood  up  and  gave  a  shout ; 

He  whistled  on  his  fingers,  and 

Kicked  the  withered  leaves  about 

And  thumped  the  branches  with  his  hand, 

And  said  he'd  kill,  and  kill,  and  kill, 

And  so  he  will,  and  so  he  will. 


102  JAMES  STEPHENS 


THE    RED-HAIRED 
MAN'S    WIFE 

I  HAVE  taken  that  vow — 
And  you  were  my  friend 
But  yesterday — now 
All  that's  at  an  end, 

And  you  are  my  husband,   and  claim  me,  and  I 
must  depend. 

Yerterday  I  was  free, 
Now  you,  as  I  stand, 
Walk  over  to  me 
And  take  hold  of  my  hand. 

You  look  at  my  lips,  your  eyes  are  too  bold,  your 
smile  is  too  bland. 

My  old  name  is  lost, 
My  distinction  of  race  : 
Now  the  line  has  been  crossed, 
Must  I  step  to  your  pace  ? 

Must  I  walk  as  you  list,  and  obey,  and  smile  up 
in  your  face  ? 

All  the  white  and  the  red 
Of  my  cheeks  you  have  won  ; 
All  the  hair  of  my  head, 
And  my  feet,  tho'  they  run, 

Are  yours,  and  you  own  me  and  end  me  just  as 
I  begun. 


JAMES  STEPHENS  103 

Must  I  bow  when  you  speak, 
Be  silent  and  hear, 
Inclining  my  cheek 
And  incredulous  ear 

To   your   voice,    and   command,   and   behest,    hold 
your  lightest  wish  dear  ? 

I  am  woman,  but  still 

Am  alive,  and  can  feel 

Every  intimate  thrill 

That  is  woe  or  is  weal. 

I,  aloof,  and  divided,  apart,  standing  far,  can  I  kneel  ? 

0  if  kneeling  were  right, 

1  should  kneel  nor  be  sad, 
And  abase  in  your  sight 
All  the  pride  that  I  had, 

I  should  come  to  you,  hold  to  you,  cling  to  you, 
call  to  you,  glad. 

If  not,  I  shall  know, 
I  shall  surely  find  out, 
And  your  world  will  throw 
In  disaster  and  rout ; 

I   am   woman   and   glory  and   beauty,    I   mystery, 
terror,  and  doubt. 

I  am  separate  still, 
I  am  I  and  not  you : 
And  my  mind  and  my  will, 
As  in  secret  they  grew, 

Still  are  secret,  unreached  and  untouched  and  not 
subject  to  you. 


io4  JAMES  STEPHENS 


THE    SNARE 
To  A.  E. 

I  HEAR  a  sudden  cry  of  pain  ! 
There  is  a  rabbit  in  a  snare  : 
Now  I  hear  the  cry  again, 
But  I  cannot  tell  from  where. 

But  I  cannot  tell  from  where 
He  is  calling  out  for  aid ; 
Crying  on  the  frightened  air, 
Making  everything  afraid. 

Making  everything  afraid, 
Wrinkling  up  his  little  face, 
As  he  cries  again  for  aid ; 
And  I  cannot  find  the  place ! 

And  I  cannot  find  the  place 
Where  his  paw  is  in  the  snare : 
Little  one  !    Oh,  little  one  ! 
I  am  searching  everywhere. 


HERBERT  TRENCH  105 


A    SONG    TO    AROLILIA 
DWELLER    BY    THE    FOUNTAIN 

WHEN  you  were  born,  the  Earth  obeyed ; 

(Call  her,  Echo  /) 

Fragrancies  from  the  distance  blew, 
Beanfields  and  violets  were  made, 
And  jasmine  by  the  cypress  grew — 
Jasmine  by  the  cloudy  yew — 

(Call  her,  Echo  ! 
Call  Arolilia  by  her  name!] 

When  you  were  born,  despairs  must  die, 

(Call  her,  Echo  /) 

Sweet  tongues  were  loosened  from  a  spell — 
Snow  mountains  glistened  from  on  high 
And  torrents  to  the  valleys  fell — 
A  song  into  Man's  bosom  fell — 

(Call  her,  Echo  ! 
Call  Arolilia  by  her  name!) 

When  you  were  born,  hid  lightning's  shape 

(Call  her,  Echo  /) 

Took  up  the  poor  man's  altar  coal, 
His  green  vine  throbbed  into  the  grape, 
And  in  the  dastard  sprang  a  soul — 
Even  in  the  dastard  sprang  a  soul — 

(Call  her,  Echo  ! 
Call  Arolilia  by  her  name  /) 


io6  HERBERT  TRENCH 

When  you  were  born,  all  golden  shot 

(Call  her,  Echo  /) 

Fountains  of  daybreak  from  the  sea, 
And  still,  if  near  I  find  you  not — 
If  steps  I  hear,  but  you  come  not — 
Darkness  lies  on  the  world  for  me  ! 

(Call  her,  Echo ! 
Call  Arolilia  by  her  name!) 


HERBERT  TRENCH  107 


EPITAPH    ON 
AN   INFANT 

HOUSE  upon  the  Earth,  be  sad, 
Lacking  me  them  mightst  have  had  I 
Many  aeons  did  I  wait 
For  admission  to  the  Gate 
Of  the  Living.    But  to  see 
Much  was  not  vouchsafed  to  me, 
Dazzled,  in  my  little  span. 
I,  that  hoped  to  be  a  man, 
Like  a  snowflake  incarnated 
Seem  for  three  days  light  created. 

I  saw  two  Eyes,  and  break  of  Day 
Gold  on  spires  of  Nineveh. 
But,  ere  I  one  comrade  made, 
Or  with  a  fellow  Beastling  played— 
Even  while  voices  I  forget 
Called  from  cloud  and  minaret 
Men  to  wake — I  stood  once  more 
With  the  Dreams,  outside  the  door. 


io8  HERBERT  TRENCH 


SONG    OF    THE    VINE 
IN   ENGLAND 


MAN. 

O  VINE  along  my  garden  wall 
Could  I  thine  English  slumber  break, 
And  thee  from  wintry  exile  disenthral, 
Where  would  thy  spirit  wake  ? 


VINE. 

I  would  wake  at  the  hour  of  dawning  in  May  in  Italy, 
When  rose  mists  rise  from  the  Magra's  valley  plains 
In  the  fields  of  maize  and  olives  around  Pontremoli 
When  peaks  grow  golden  and  clear  and  the  starlight 

wanes : 
I  would  wake  to  the  dance  of  the  sacred  mountains, 

boundlessly 

Kindling  their  marble  snows  in  the  rite  of  fire, 
To  them  my  newborn  tendrils  softly  and  soundlessly 
Would  uncurl  and  aspire. 

I  would  hang  no  more  on  thy  wall  a  rusted  slumberer, 
Listless  and  fruitless,  strewing  the  pathways  cold, 
I  would  seem  no  more  in  thine  eyes  an  idle  cumberer 
Profitless  alien,  bitter  and  sere  and  old. 


HERBERT  TRENCH  109 

In  some  warm  terraced  dell  where  the  Roman  rioted 
And  still  in  tiers  his  stony  theatre  heaves, 
Would  I  festoon  with  leaf-light  his  glory  quieted 
And  flake  his  thrones  with  leaves. 

Doves  from  the  mountain  belfries  would  seek  and 

cling  to  me 
To   drink  from  the  altar,   winnowing  the  fragrant 

airs  ; 
Women   from  olived  hillsides  by  turns   would  sing 

to  me 

Beating  the  olives,  or  stooping  afield  in  pairs ; 
On  gala  evenings  the  gay  little  carts  of  labourers 
Swinging  from  axles  their  horns  against  evil  eye 
And   crowded   with   children,   revellers,   pipers   and 

taborers 

Chanting  would  pass  me  by.  .  .  . 

There    go    the    pale    blue    shadows    so    light    and 

showery 

Over  sharp  Apuan  peaks — rathe  mists  unwreathe — 
Almond   trees    wake,    and   the    paven   yards   grow 

flowery — 
Crocuses     cry     from    the     earth    at    the    joy    to 

breathe  ; 
There  through  the  deep-eaved  gateways  of  haughty- 

turreted 

Arno — house-laden  bridges  of  strutted  stalls — 
Mighty  white  oxen  drag  in  the  jars  rich-spirited 
Grazing  the  narrow  walls  ! 


no  HERBERT  TRENCH 

Wine-jars  I  too  have  filled,  and  the  heart  was  thrilled 

with  me  ! 

Brown-limbed  on  shady  turf  the  families  lay, 
Shouting  they  bowled  the  bowls,  and  old  men  filled 

with  me 

Roused  the  September  twilight  with  songs  that  day. 
Lanterns    of   sun    and    moon    the    young    children 

flaunted  me, 

Plaiters  of  straw  from  doorway  to  window  cried— 
Borne  through  the  city  gates  the  great  oxen  vaunted 

me, 

Swaying  from  side  to  side. 

Wine-jars  out  of  my  leafage  that  once  so  vitally 
Throbbed  into  purple,  of  me  thou  shalt  never  take  : 
Thy  heart  would  remember  the  towns  on  the  branch 

of  Italy, 
And  teaching  to  throb  I  should  teach  it,  perchance, 

to  break. 
It  would  beat  for  those  little  cities,  rock-hewn  and 

mellowing 
Festooned    from    summit    to    summit,   where    still 

sublime 

Murmur  her  temples,  lovelier  in  their  yellowing 
Than  in  the  morn  of  time. 

I  from  the  scorn  of  frost  and  the  wind's  iniquity 
Barren,  aloft  in  that  golden  air  would  thrive : 
My    passionate   rootlets    draw   from   that    hearth's 

antiquity 
Whirls  of  profounder  fire  in  us  to  survive — 


HERBERT  TRENCH  in 

Serried  realms  of  our  fathers  would  swell  and  foam 

with  us — 

Juice  of  the  Latin  sunrise ;    your  own  sea-flung 
Rude  and  far-wandered  race  might  again  find  home 

with  us, 
Leaguing  with  old  Rome,  young. 


H2  HERBERT  TRENCH 


WHO    ART    THOU, 
STARRY    GHOST 


WHO  art  thou,  starry  ghost, 

That  ridest  on  the  air 

At  head  of  all  the  host, 

And  art  so  burning-eyed 

For  all  thy  strengthlessness  ? 

World,  I  am  no  less 

Than  She  whom  thou  hast  awaited ; 

She  who  remade  a  Poland  out  of  nothingness, 

And  hath  created 

Ireland,  out  of  a  breath  of  pride 

In  the  reed-bed  of  despair. 


KATHARINE  TYNAN  1.13 


FAREWELL 


NOT  soon  shall  I  forget — a  sheet 
Of  golden  water,  cold  and  sweet, 
The  young  moon  with  her  head  in  veils 
Of  silver,  and  the  nightingales. 

A  wain  of  hay  came  up  the  lane — 

0  fields  I  shall  not  walk  again, 
And  trees  I  shall  not  see,  so  still 
Against  a  sky  of  daffodil ! 

Fields  where  my  happy  heart  had  rest, 
And  where  my  heart  was  heaviest, 

1  shall  remember  them  at  peace 
Drenched  in  moon-silver  like  a  fleece. 

The  golden  water  sweet  and  cold, 
The  moon  of  silver  and  of  gold, 
The  dew  upon  the  gray  grass-spears, 
I  shall  remember  them  with  tears. 


ii4  KATHARINE  TYNAN 


THE 

OLD    LOVE 


OUT  of  my  door  I  step  into 
The  country,  all  her  scent  and  dew, 
Nor  travel  there  by  a  hard  road, 
Dusty  and  far  from  my  abode. 

The  country  washes  to  my  door 
Green  miles  on  miles  in  soft  uproar, 
The  thunder  of  the  woods,  and  then 
The  backwash  of  green  surf  again. 

Beyond  the  feverfew  and  stocks, 
The  guelder-rose  and  hollyhocks ; 
Outside  my  trellised  porch  a  tree 
Of  lilac  frames  a  sky  for  me. 

A  stretch  of  primrose  and  pale  green 
To  hold  the  tender  Hesper  in  ; 
Hesper  that  by  the  moon  makes  pale 
Her  silver  keel  and  silver  sail. 

The  country  silence  wraps  me  quite, 
Silence  and  song  and  pure  delight ; 
The  country  beckons  all  the  day 
Smiling,  and  but  a  step  away. 


KATHARINE  TYNAN  115 

This  is  that  country  seen  across 
How  many  a  league  of  love  and  loss, 
Prayed  for  and  longed  for,  and  as  far 
As  fountains  in  the  desert  are. 

This  is  that  country  at  my  door, 
Whose  fragrant  airs  run  on  before, 
And  call  me  when  the  first  birds  stir 
In  the  green  wood  to  walk  with  her. 


u6  KATHARINE  TYNAN 


THE 
PRAYER 


SHE  drew  the  grey  shawl  round  her  head  ; 
"  Sure  it  is  bitter  cold,"  she  said ; 
"  An'  is  there  news  of  him,  asthore  ?  " 
God  help  the  mothers  of  the  world  ! 

"I  do  be  prayin'  to  meseP 
The  Lord  may  keep  him  safe  and  well 
An'  bring  him  back  to  his  mother's  door." 
God  help  the  mothers  of  the  world  ! 

"  The  lambs  are  perished  wid  the  storm. 
God  keep  his  darlin'  head  from  harm  ! 
It's  well  for  her  has  ne'er  a  one  !  " 
God  help  the  mothers  of  the  world  ! 

And  as  I  went  my  way  I  heard 
Her  call  like  a  lamenting  bird  : 
"  I  used  to  fret  that  had  no  son." 
God  help  the  mothers  of  the  world  I 


W.   B.  YEATS  117 


DOWN    BY    THE 
SALLEY    GARDENS 


DOWN  by  the  salley  gardens  my  love  and  I  did 

meet ; 
She  passed  the  salley  gardens  with  little  snow-white 

feet. 
She  bid  me  take  love  easy,  as  the  leaves  grow  on 

the  tree ; 
But  I,  being  young  and  foolish,  with  her  would  not 

agree. 

In  a  field  by  the  river  my  love  and  I  did  stand, 

And  on  my  leaning  shoulder  she  laid  her  snow- 
white  hand. 

She  bid  me  take  life  easy,  as  the  grass  grows  on  the 
weirs ; 

But  I  was  young  and  foolish,  and  now  am  full  of 
tears. 


u8  W.   B.   YEATS 


RUNNING 

TO    PARADISE 


As  I  came  over  Windy  Gap 

They  threw  a  halfpenny  into  my  cap, 

For  I  am  running  to  Paradise  ; 

And  all  that  I  need  do  is  to  wish 

And  somebody  puts  his  hand  in  the  dish 

To  throw  me  a  bit  of  salted  fish  : 

And  there  the  king  is  but  as  the  beggar. 

My  brother  Mourteen  is  worn  out 

With  skelping  his  big  brawling  lout, 

And  I  am  running  to  Paradise  ; 

A  poor  life  do  what  he  can, 

And  though  he  keep  a  dog  and  a  gun, 

A  serving  maid  and  a  serving  man  : 

And  there  the  king  is  but  as  the  beggar. 

Poor  men  have  grown  to  be  rich  men, 
And  rich  men  grown  to  be  poor  again, 
And  I  am  running  to  Paradise  ; 
And  many  a  darling  wit's  grown  dull 
That  tossed  a  bare  heel  when  at  school, 
Now  it  has  filled  an  old  sock  full : 
And  there  the  king  is  but  as  the  beggar. 


W.   B.   YEATS  119 

The  wind  is  old  and  still  at  play 

While  I  must  hurry  upon  my  way, 

For  I  am  running  to  Paradise ; 

Yet  never  have  I  lit  on  a  friend 

To  take  my  fancy  like  the  wind 

That  nobody  can  buy  or  bind  : 

And  there  the  king  is  but  as  the  beggar. 


120  W.   B.   YEATS 


THE     LAKE    ISLE 
OF     INNISFREE 

I  WILL  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 
And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles 

made  : 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the 

honey  bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes 

dropping  slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  the  morning  to  where 

the  cricket  sings  ; 
There  midnight's   all  aglimmer,  and  noon  a  purple 

glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 
I  hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the 

shore ; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements 

gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 


W.  B.  YEATS  121 


THE  SORROW 
OF  LOVE 

THE  quarrel  of  the  sparrows  in  the  eaves, 
The  full  round  moon  and  the  star-laden  sky, 
And  the  loud  song  of  the  ever-singing  leaves, 
Had  hid  away  earth's  old  and  weary  cry. 

And  then  you  came  with  those  red  mournful  lips, 

And  with  you  came  the  whole  of  the  world's  tears 

And  all  the  trouble  of  her  labouring  ships, 

And  all  the  trouble  of  her  myriad  years. 

And  now  the  sparrows  warring  in  the  eaves, 
The  curd-pale  moon,  the  white  stars  in  the  sky, 
And  the  loud  chaunting  of  the  unquiet  leaves, 
Are  shaken  with  earth's  old  and  weary  cry. 


122  W.   B.   YEATS 


THE    WILD    SWANS 
AT    COOLE 

THE  trees  are  in  their  autumn  beauty, 

The  woodland  paths  are  dry, 
Under  the  October  twilight  the  water 

Mirrors  a  still  sky  ; 
Upon  the  brimming  water  among  the  stones 

Are  nine  and  fifty  swans. 


The  nineteenth  Autumn  has  come  upon  me 

Since  I  first  made  my  count ; 
I  saw,  before  I  had  well  finished, 

All  suddenly  mount 
And  scatter  wheeling  in  great  broken  rings 

Upon  their  clamorous  wings. 


I  have  looked  upon  those  brilliant  creatures, 

And  now  my  heart  is  sore. 
All's  changed  since  I,  hearing  at  twilight, 

The  first  time  on  this  shore, 
The  bell-beat  of  their  wings  above  my  head, 

Trod  with  a  lighter  tread. 


W.   B.   YEATS  123 

Unwearied  still,  lover  by  lover, 

They  paddle  in  the  cold, 
Companionable  streams  or  climb  the  air ; 

Their  hearts  have  not  grown  old  ; 
Passion  or  conquest,  wander  where  they  will, 

Attend  upon  them  still. 

But  now  they  drift  on  the  still  water 

Mysterious,  beautiful ; 
Among  what  rushes  will  they  build, 

By  what  lake's  edge  or  pool 
Delight  men's  eyes  when  I  awake  some  day 

To  find  they  have  flown  away  ? 


124  W.   B.   YEATS 


TO    THE    ROSE    UPON 
THE    ROOD    OF    TIME 


RED    Rose,    proud    Rose,    sad    Rose    of    all    my 

days  ! 

Come  near  me,  while  I  sing  the  ancient  ways  : 
Cuchulain  battling  with  the  bitter  tide ; 
The  Druid,  gray,  wood-nurtured,  quiet-eyed, 
Who  cast  round  Fergus  dreams,  and  ruin  untold  ; 
And  thine  own  sadness,  whereof  stars,  grown  old 
In  dancing  silver  sandalled  on  the  sea, 
Sing  in  their  high  and  lonely  melody. 
Come  near,  that  no  more  blinded  by  man's  fate, 
I  find  under  the  boughs  of  love  and  hate, 
In  all  poor  foolish  things  that  live  a  day, 
Eternal  beauty  wandering  on  her  way. 

Come  near,  come  near,  come  near — Ah,   leave  me 

still 

A  little  space  for  the  rose-breath  to  fill ! 
Lest  I  no  more  hear  common  things  that  crave  ; 
The  weak  worm  hiding  down  in  its  small  cave, 
The  field  mouse  running  by  me  in  the  grass, 
And  heavy  mortal  hopes  that  toil  and  pass  ; 
But  seek  alone  to  hear  the  strange  things  said 
By  God  to  the  bright  hearts  of  those  long  dead, 


W.   B.   YEATS  125 

And  learn  to  chaunt  a  tongue  men  do  not  know. 
Come  near  ;    I  would,  before  my  time  to  go, 
Sing  of  old  Eire  and  the  ancient  ways  : 
Red  Rose,  proud  Rose,  sad  Rose  of  all  my  days. 


126  W.   B.   YEATS 


WHEN    YOU 
ARE    OLD 

WHEN  /ou  are  old  and  gray  and  full  of  sleep, 
And  nodding  by  the  fire,  take  down  this  book, 
And  slowly  read,  and  dream  of  the  soft  look 
Your  eyes  had  once,  and  of  their  shadows  deep. 

How  many  loved  your  moments  of  glad  grace, 
And  loved  your  beauty  with  love  false  or  true ; 
But  one  man  loved  the  pilgrim  soul  in  you, 
And  loved  the  sorrows  of  your  changing  face. 

And  bending  down  beside  the  glowing  bars 
Murmur,  a  little  sadly,  how  love  fled 
And  paced  upon  the  mountains  overhead 
And  hid  his  face  amid  a  crowd  of  stars. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 


FOR  their  kindly  permission  to  use  Copyright  Poems  the  Editor 
is  deeply  indebted  to : — 

THE  AUTHORS  :  A.  E.,  J.  Campbell,  P.  R.  Chalmers,  N.  Chesson, 
A.  Clarke,  P.  Colum,  J.  H.  Cousins,  H.  L.  Doak,  D. 
Figgis,  I.  Hume  (I.  H.  Fisher),  D.  Hyde,  E.  Gore-Booth, 
P.  Gregory,  S.  Leslie,  W.  M.  Letts,  E.  E.  Lysaght,  J.  F. 
MacEntee,  P.  MacGill,  S.  Mitchell,  "  M.  O'Neill," 
S.  O'Sullivan,  R.  Rowley,  J.  Stephens,  H.  Trench,  K. 
Tynan  and  W.  B.  Yeats. 

THE  LITERARY  EXECUTORS  OF  :  L.  Johnson,  F.  Ledwidge,  T. 
MacDonagh,  P.  H.  Pearse,  J.  M.  Plunkett,  T.  W.  Rolleston 
and  D.  Sigerson  (Mrs.  Clement  Shorter). 

AND  THE  FOLLOWING  PUBLISHERS  in  respect  of  the  poems  selected  : — 
Messrs.  Blackwood  &  Sons. 

"  M.  O'Neill  "  :  The  Songs  of  the  Glens  of  Antrim. 

Messrs.  Constable  £  Co.,  Ltd. 

D.  Sigerson  :  The  Sad  Tears. 

H.  Trench :  Poems  with  Fables  in  Prose. 

Messrs.  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son,  Ltd. 

D.  Hyde  :  Love  Songs  of  Connacht. 

Messrs.  Henry  Holt  &  Co.  of  New  York. 

P.  Colum :  Wild  Earth  and  Other  Poems. 

Mr.  Herbert  Jenkins. 

F.  Ledwidge  :  Complete  Poems. 

P.  MacGill :  Songs  of  Donegal. 

Messrs.  Macmillan  &  Co.,  Ltd. 

A.  E. :  Poems. 

J.  Stephens :  The  Adventures  of  Seumas  Beg. 

Songs  from  the  Clay. 


128 


ACKNOWLEDGMENT 


W.  B.  Yeats: 

Mr.  Elkin  Matthews. 
N.  Chesson: 
L.  Johnson  : 

Messrs.  Maunsel  and  Roberts, 
P.  Chalmers: 
A.  Clarke : 
P.  Colum  : 
J.  H.  Cousins : 

D.  Figgis: 

E.  Gore-Booth: 

T.  Hume  (I.H.  Fisher)  : 
E.  E.  Lysaght : 
S.  Mitchell: 
S.  O'Sullivan: 
P.  H.  Pearse  : 
T.  W.  Rolleston  : 
R.  Rowley: 
J.  Stephens: 
Mr.  John  Murray. 
W.  M.  letts : 


Responsibilities. 

The  Wild  Swans  at  Code. 

Aquamarines. 
Poetical  Works. 

Ltd. 

Green  Days  and  Blue  Days. 
The  Vengeance  of  Fiona. 
Wild  Earth  and  Other  Poems. 
The  Bell-Branch. 
The  Mount  of  Transfiguration. 
Broken  Glory. 

The  Pursuit  and  Other  Poems. 
Irish  Eclogues. 
The  Living  Chalice. 
The  Rosses  and  Other  Poems. 
Collected  Works. 
Sea  Spray. 

City  Songs  and  Others. 
Insurrections. 


Songs  from  Leinster. 


Messrs.  Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  Ltd. 
K.  Tynan  :  Late 

The  Talbot  Press,  Ltd. 
H.  L.  Doak : 
T.  MacDonagh  : 
J.  F.  MacEntee : 
J.  M.  Plunkett : 


The  Three-Rock  Road. 

Poems. 

Poems. 

Poems. 


Mr.  T.  Fisher  Unwin,  Ltd. 

W.  B.  Yeats :  Poems. 


Printed  in  Great  Britain  by 
LNWI.N  BROTHERS,   LIMITED,   THE  SRESHAM  FRB8S,   WOKINC  AND  LONMM 


031  167 


